


The Nature of Evil

by kireteiru



Category: Hannibal (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Crossover, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Episode Fix-It: s02e13 Mizumono, Every Time I Try to Type Lucius Malfoy I Wind Up Typing Luscious Instead, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Hogwarts Chamber of Secrets, Horcrux-Induced Insanity, Horcruxes, Katz Is Alive Because I Say She Is, Luscious Lucius Malfoy, M/M, Mirror of Erised, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ravenclaw Harry Potter, Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem, Salazar Slytherin’s Basilisk, Tom Riddle's Diary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-05-23 06:42:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14929182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kireteiru/pseuds/kireteiru
Summary: AU. In which a certain Murder Family discovers that the rude family they killed has a fourth member, and adopts him as their own. Established Hannigram, future Harrymort. (Summary pending.)





	1. A Knife in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe it's pre-S2 finale. Maybe it's not. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Idk. Abigail's here.
> 
> Since I can't list a series as inspiration with the actual archive system, [here you go.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/929900)

Harry wasn’t sure what woke him that night, only that suddenly he was awake and staring up at the bottom of the stairs through the darkness. It was late, very late, and he laid there for several minutes, listening. He was about to roll over and go back to sleep when he finally heard it. Long, slow sniffing, outside the door to his cupboard.

He froze, heart starting to pound in his chest, wondering what kind of animal could have found its way into the Dursleys’ house without making a horrendous amount of noise.

He got his answer sooner than he would have liked.

The lock on the door slid back, and the door itself swung open, revealing three human-shaped figures in the darkness of the entryway, only partially lit by streetlights. Two of them – the tallest and broadest, and the one crouched in front that opened the door – were naked, skin black as pitch but smooth and sexless, save for feminine curves on the crouching one. The third was dressed in nothing but a pair of cutoff jeans, more human than the other two but at least partway through becoming the same kind of creature, his eyes pale and skin a dark grey. All three of them had wickedly sharp antlers curving up from the crowns of their heads.

The more human looking one let his eyes sweep over Harry and his cupboard, before his eyes narrowed and jaw drew tight.

Without visible prompting, the female creature shifted aside, allowing him to approach and take her place in front of the cupboard, crouching so he was level with Harry. As the boy watched, the antlers seemed to retract into his skull, disappearing into his dark, curly hair. His skin lightened and eyes darkened, and by the time he spoke he looked just like anyone else.

“Hello,” he said with surprising gentleness and an American accent, “What’s your name?”

“Harry. Harry Potter.”

“Hello, Harry. My name is Will, and this is Hannibal.” He pointed at the taller creature, who inclined his head. “And Abigail.” The smaller creature waived a wet, clawed hand.

Even in the dark, Harry saw the light glinting off the blood. He felt queerly detached, and yet perfectly at ease with these strange beings. He couldn’t say how he knew they wouldn’t hurt him, only that he did. “Did you kill them? The Dursleys?”

The man went still, and looked carefully into his eyes before saying, “Yes.”

A relieved sigh whooshed from his lungs. “Thank you.”

The taller creature hummed faintly, and exchanged glances with the man. The female creature looked hopeful, although Harry couldn’t say how he knew that, either.

“Would you like to come with us?” Will asked.

Harry thought about it for only a second. His aunt and uncle had often told him stories about orphanages and threatened to leave him at one when he ‘misbehaved.’ He assumed that now that they were dead, he would have to go – assuming he didn’t go with Will and Hannibal and Abigail. He had seen orphanages on TV now and then, and while they didn’t quite live up to the Dursleys’ horror stories, he still had no desire to live in one.

“Yes. Yes, please.”

* * *

Harry slept most of the way to their house, leaning against Abigail’s shoulder after she resumed human form, lulled to sleep by the sounds of her whispering to Hannibal and Will in the front seats.

The house was much larger than the Dursleys’, a stately manor house that backed up to an ancient wood. He only caught vague glimpses of it through the dark, but despite the circumstances it didn’t seem truly sinister at all, even if the trees behind it did take on strange shapes.

He got his own room next to Abigail’s, with Hannibal and Will just down the hall. When he climbed into the bed, it felt like he was lying on a cloud, much softer and more comfortable than his cot under the stairs, and he dropped off to sleep almost immediately.

When he woke in the morning, he was half-convinced he was still asleep, and any minute he would be woken up by Aunt Petunia hammering at the door, telling him to get up and do his chores.

But when he opened his eyes, the bed didn’t vanish under him, the room didn’t disappear around him. The room was pastel blue with white trim, with a white-framed painting of a house by a stream on the wall opposite the bed. One of the white doors led to a bathroom done in soft grey stone with silvery fixtures; another led to a closet easily twice as big as his cupboard.

The last led out into the hall, where he smelled food cooking.

Harry followed his nose to the kitchen, where he found Will nursing coffee and Abigail laying out a tray of cold cuts, while Hannibal stood at the stove, sautéing something in a deep-sided pan. Of all of them, he was the only one fully dressed in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark pants, and dark dress shoes. Everyone else, including Harry himself, was still in their pajamas, complete with bedhead.

Will looked up when he entered and gave him a sleepy smile. “Good morning, Harry.”

“Good morning.” He returned the smile shyly and sat down across from the man when he was waved over.

“After breakfast, we’ll be heading out to get you clothes and the like, so eat well,” said Hannibal, coming over with plates of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and roasted potatoes. Once they were carefully laid out on the table, he went back and returned with a bowl of fresh fruit and a tray of toast laid out in an elegant fan.

Despite being the biggest of all of them (although not by much, in Will’s case), Hannibal was the most delicate eater of all of them. The others finished long before him and excused themselves from the table to get dressed. Harry did the same, and returned to his room to dress himself in his cousin’s hand-me-downs for what he knew was the last time.

* * *

Eventually, Will took him aside and explained what the three of them were, the forms he’d seen that night in the Dursleys’ house.

Wendigo, creatures born from humans who eat the flesh of other humans.

“Am I going to become one?” he had asked, “Are you going to make me one?”

“Not until you’re older. At _least_ of age. And not if you don’t want to be one,” was the reply, “You’re, what, six? Seven?”

“Six and a half.”

“Then you have ten years to think about it.”

* * *

He did think about it, on nights when his fathers left him with Abigail while they hunted more human monsters, or with Will while Hannibal taught Abigail how to get away with murder and elevate it to art. He thought about it when Will and Abigail took him out into the woods to teach him how to shoot, or when all his family taught him how to defend himself against monsters that were all too human.

He thought about it when he started working with Hannibal to build a mind palace, and make his spurts of magic less accidental and more intentional. (Because what else could it be when a dropped teacup came back together in his hands? What else could it be when a gash that needed sixteen stitches was healed without a scar by morning? What else could it be when he _willed_ things to happen, _and they did_?)

He was still thinking about it when The Letter arrived.


	2. Many Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI, this fic isn't going to be really heavy on bashing anyone (I hope). It's more an exploration of what would happen in this situation. That said, I'm not going to resist the urge to throw a few punches where I think it's warranted.

Both of his fathers – and his sister – told him that life was often divided up into _befores_ and _afters_ , when life was changed forever in minor and major ways. Before walking, and after it. Before talking, and after it. Reading. Writing. School. Dating. Sex. Kids.

Murder.

Up until then, Harry had really only had one major _before_ and _after_ – before their family, and after. Even his magic hadn’t seemed like so big of a deal in comparison.

At least, until The Letter came.

After that day it was always The Letter, not just a letter but _The_ Letter, and not just for him but for all of them.

It came on a Saturday morning as they were all making breakfast. Will was near zombie-status, as usual, waiting for the coffee to brew. In direct contrast, Hannibal was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, in the process of toasting homemade crumpets for Eggs Benedict, while Abigail and Harry mixed up the sauce. They were giggling over the squelching noise it was making when they were interrupted by a muffled hoot.

There was an _owl_ at the window, an envelope clasped in its beak.

They all stared at it, even Hannibal. The owl stared back.

Harry was the first one to approach it and see that the envelope was addressed to _him_ , right down to “The Blue and White Bedroom.” He opened the window, and the owl stepped inside to stand on the inner sill. It fluffed its feathers, then offered him the envelope.

“Thank you,” he said automatically as he took it, and the owl rustled its feathers again.

Since blinking at it didn’t change the fact that it was addressed to him, and his family could see it too which meant he wasn’t hallucinating, he turned the envelope over. The flap had been stamped with an unfamiliar coat of arms, which he frowned at, before opening it.

 _Dear Mr Potter,_ the letter – The Letter – read, _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary equipment._

 _Term begins September 1,_ It continued, _We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours sincerely, Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress._

Harry stared at The Letter, then read it aloud for the benefit of the others.

Abigail was the first to abandon what she was doing to read The Letter with her own eyes, followed by Will and then Hannibal, who actually stopped cooking (although he did turn off the heat). By the time he had finished, he looked just as bewildered as the rest of them for once.

“Um, we’re going to need time to talk about this,” Harry said to the owl, “Do you mind coming back later? Maybe after supper?”

The owl hooted what seemed to be an affirmative, and Harry gave it a long strip of bacon – pig bacon, not people bacon. It swallowed the meat, hooted its thanks, and then hopped back outside before taking flight. He shut the window behind it and turned back to his family.

“Making decisions on an empty stomach is never wise,” Hannibal said, and resumed cooking.

The meal was delicious, as always, but they all ate in silence, all of them occasionally glancing at The Letter on the counter as if they expected it to burst into flames.

It did not.

Once breakfast was finished and the dishes cleared away, Harry retrieved The Letter, and they all retired to the drawing room to talk.

Will spoke first, much to everyone’s surprise, even his own. “You want to go.”

“Yes,” Harry replied, equally straightforward, “I have questions, _many_ questions. About my magic, about my parents and what happened to them. About why this is the first time I’m learning about a _school_ for _magic_.”

“The fact that there _is_ a school implies that there are magic-users enough to warrant one,” Hannibal said, setting his cup down on its saucer, “ _At least_ one. That also implies a government of some sort, if only to manage the school and police the magic-users.”

Harry nodded. “And… about the rest of my family. My parents had to have come from somewhere. Why do I only know my aunt and uncle? If there are more, why haven’t I heard from them? This,” he held up The Letter, “might be my chance to get some answers.”

* * *

The rest of the day was spent talking logistics and summer tutoring for continuing his non-magical education.

Of course, then Will started muttering about him and Hannibal “being empty-nesters before their time,” since Abigail was going to start going away to college and Harry was going to be at a boarding school for most of the year. (Professor McGonagall had thoughtfully included a brief overview of the school and the curriculum, as well as directions to Diagon Alley, where he could purchase his supplies.) Both wendigo and wizard hastened to assure him that they would both come back for summer and winter breaks and offered their most solemn promises that they would keep in contact with them and each other, and write about everything that happened while they were away.

The owl returned after supper, and Harry sent it with his acceptance and a thick slice of ham as thanks for the bird’s patience.

They planned their trip to Diagon Alley for Tuesday, hoping that the magical world would resemble the non-magical one in that it would be less busy and give them time to look around without there being a crush of people on every side. Abigail came, too, practically bouncing with excitement as they approached the Leaky Cauldron and all of them ignoring Hannibal’s quiet moue of distaste at the sight of the dingy pub.

“Hogwarts?” the barman called when they entered.

“Yes, sir,” Will replied, “Would you mind opening the Alley for us? We can’t…” He gestured to his ordinary clothes, contrasting obviously with everyone else’s robes.

“Of course, of course! Right this way.” The barman led the way out back and tapped the wall with his wand. As the bricks folded away, he said, “You’ll be wanting Gringotts first, the white building there. That’s the bank, and then Ollivander’s down that way for your wand.”

They all thanked him and set off.

Gringotts was more Hannibal’s style than the pub or even the rest of the Alley, all white marble, dark wood, and low lighting. Goblins sat in teller booths along one wall, writing in ledgers and weighing gold bars and examining precious jewels. They approached one booth and waited.

The goblin finished writing and then peered down at them through his spectacles. “Name?”

“Harry Potter, sir,” said the boy.

The goblin quirked an eyebrow and said in a much more respectful tone, “Do you have your vault key, Mr Potter?”

“No, sir. I’m sorry, I was unaware I had a vault here.”

 _That_ made the goblin blink sharply. “Do you have a photo ID, or some other means of proving your identity?”

He handed over his student ID from school and The Letter. The goblin looked them over, frowning, then handed them back and hopped down from his station. “Come with me, please.”

They followed the goblin deeper into the bank, and waited outside an office while the goblin spoke to someone within. When the goblin returned, there was a second, older-looking one with him. “I am Barlus,” he said, “Please come in and have a seat.”

Initially, there were only two chairs in front of the desk, but two more appeared as they approached. “Now,” said Barlus, “Nurrod tells me that not only do you not have your key, but you didn’t know your family has a vault with Gringotts?”

“That’s correct.”

“Is that a problem?” Hannibal asked.

“Not for _you_ , Mr…?”

“Doctor Hannibal Lecter. This is my husband, Will, and our daughter, Abigail. We’re Harry’s family.”

“Of course. And it’s not a problem for _you_ , Doctor,” said Barlus with a slight grin, “but it is for the person who was supposed to be looking after him.

“I assume that since you didn’t know your family had a vault with us, you also didn’t know that you have a magical guardian who is supposed to be looking after your interests?”

“Correct.”

“Interesting.” The goblin opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a piece of parchment and a small knife. “We’ll need three drops of blood on this for an inheritance test and to confirm your identity.”

“Does it matter where from?” When the goblin shook his head, Harry let Hannibal make a careful incision in the skin of his forearm, and then let three drops fall onto the parchment before willing the cut to close.

“Interesting choice,” the goblin observed, “Most people go for somewhere on the hand.”

“That hurts more, even if it _is_ easier to heal,” said Harry.

His blood dissolved into the parchment. Then writing appeared, fanning out across the page. The goblin took it and read it intently, frowning. “Albus Dumbledore, of _course_ ,” he growled.

“Isn’t he the headmaster of Hogwarts?” Will asked, “I remember his name from The Letter.”

“He is indeed. And you’ve never met him before? Old man, tall, long white hair and a beard down to here on him, usually wears annoyingly brightly-colored robes?” When all of them shook their heads, he grinned again. “ _Interesting._ ”

“How so?”

“As your magical guardian, Dumbledore is supposed to be looking after you, which includes _at least_ twice-yearly inspections of your home if not living with him and regular correspondence at least once a month.”

“Harry receiving his Hogwarts Letter was the very first contact _any_ of us had received from _anyone_ in the magical community,” said Hannibal.

“Nothing at all? Not even from us?”

“Nothing.”

That made Barlus frown sharply. “You are listed here as Mr Potter’s non-magical guardians. You should have been receiving copies of monthly statements once you took over guardianship from – Vernon and Petunia Dursley?”

“My aunt and uncle,” said Harry, “They’re dead, along with my cousin, Dudley. Animal attack, when I was six.”

“When you were _six?!_ ” the goblin repeated incredulously, looking increasingly incensed, “Gringotts should have been alerted within a _month_ of it happening!”

After that, there was a flurry of more goblins and more paperwork. Hannibal stayed back to talk legalese and investments with the goblins while Will, Harry, and Abigail went down to the Potter trust vault to get money for his school supplies. When they returned, the goblins were ready to do a blood adoption for both Harry and Abigail, so that Will and Hannibal would legally be their parents, meaning Dumbledore and the government – the _Ministry of Magic_ – couldn’t take them away.

The goblins were all grinning, eager to cause problems for the wizards who caused problems for them. “Before we begin,” said Barlus, “do any of you have any physical conditions that we need to know about that could affect the adoption?”

They all exchanged glances. Then Hannibal said, “Will, Abigail, and I are wendigo.”

That made all the goblins stare, and Barlus’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “Would you be so kind as to show us?”

All three of them changed at once, becoming tall and thin, black-skinned and white-eyed, their sharp antlers curving up towards the ceiling.

“ _High_ Wendigo,” the goblin grinned as they changed back, “There hasn’t been _one_ confirmed High Wendigo in all of Europe in more than five hundred years, much less _three_.”

“What’s the difference?” Will asked.

“Base wendigo are beasts,” the goblin answered, “animals, slaves to their hunger. Whoever and whatever they were before becoming a wendigo is lost forever with the change.

“High Wendigo, however, feel the same craving for flesh but are not lost to it. They are immortal, can change form freely, from human to wendigo and back again, and are impervious to most spells and means of detection. High Wendigo can also call and command base wendigo if they are within their range.”

“ _Will_ this affect the adoption?”

“Not in the slightest,” said Barlus, “But just know that while you may eventually acquire a taste for human flesh, you won’t ever become a wendigo, base or High. Your native magic won’t allow it.”

“Bummer,” Abigail and Harry said together.

* * *

The adoption went off without a hitch, and gave them the added benefit of being able to distantly sense each other’s emotions. They all left Gringotts in a state of contentment, with promises from the goblins that Dumbledore would no longer have access to Harry’s accounts, and all keys and artifacts would be retrieved and returned, although they couldn’t do anything about any money that had been taken without an order from the Wizengamot, the Wizard’s Court. However, an full audit would be done and sent to them to see what transactions, if any, had been taking place.

Ollivander’s was occupied by a small family – father, mother, and son – and an older gentleman who was probably Ollivander himself. “Ah, Mr Potter,” the man sighed, “I wondered when I would be seeing you. Step up over here so we can get you measured while Mr Malfoy finds his wand.”

Harry did so and nodded to the other boy, who returned the gesture, eyes wide. At a nudge from his father, he flicked the wand in his hand – and the vase of flowers on the counter exploded in a shower of glass, startling all of them. He quickly put the wand back in its box while his mother repaired the vase and replaced the flowers, then offered his hand. “Draco Malfoy.”

“Harry Potter.” He shook as best he could given that a magical tape measure was measuring the length of each of his fingers.

“Do you know what house you’re going to be in?” the blond boy asked, picking up another wand.

“House?”

“At Hogwarts.” Draco dropped the wand when it let out a gout of flame, then scooped it back into its box without touching it.

“Oh. Um, no. To be honest, we all just found out about this-” He gestured to the store and the Alley beyond. “-on Saturday.”

At that, even Draco’s parents stared. Then his father stepped forward, offering his hand. “Lucius Malfoy.”

Introductions went all around, Abigail taking great pride in introducing herself as “Abigail Lecter” for the first time.

“You – _all_ of you – just found out about our world four days ago?” Lucius was absolutely aghast. “I’m assuming that’s when you received your Hogwarts letter?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, we knew magic existed – I was able to do little things that couldn’t be explained…”

“Accidental magic,” Narcissa nodded approvingly.

“But – nothing about all of _this_. Before _they_ died, my aunt and uncle always told me that my parents were drunks who died in a car crash, when they talked about them at all.”

Lucius drew himself up. “ _Lily and James Potter_ , killed in a _car crash?!_ Lily may have been a – muggleborn – but _both_ of them were _far_ too skilled to die by so mundane a means! Saying so would be an _insult_ to their memory!”

“Then how _did_ they die?” Harry asked, even as Draco’s latest attempt shredded all the advertisements pinned to a board on one wall.

Lucius paused, only noticeable to them because they all knew how to look for tells like it, and then said, “They were murdered, by the Dark Lord.”

“Do you know why?”

“I’m unsure. All I know is that we were at war, and they went into hiding and were betrayed to their deaths. But the Dark Lord tried to kill you, too, and failed and was destroyed. And no one knows why or how.

“But that seems a bit heavy a topic for now. Getting your wand is supposed to be a time of celebration. Perhaps we all could discuss it further over lunch?” He smiled charmingly at them.

They all gratefully accepted, right before Draco’s wand let out a shower of silver and gold sparks and a series of bell-like chimes.

Harry’s own wand was almost as hard to find. He went through almost all of the ones Draco left on the counter before Ollivander emerged from the back of the store with a single dusty box. “I wonder,” he said, before unwrapping the wand and offering it to the boy handle-first.

When he took it, a rush of warmth flowed from the wood into his hand, spreading out to fill his whole body. When he twirled it, a blood red ribbon rippled out from the tip before dissolving into motes of red light that hung in the air until Ollivander banished them. “Curious,” said the man, “Very curious…”

“I’m sorry, sir – what’s curious?”

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr Potter,” said the wandmaker, taking it back and almost reverently putting it in its box, “It just so happens that the phoenix who gave the feather for your wand core, gave another feather – just one other. It is very curious indeed that _you_ should be destined for _this_ wand, when its _brother_ took your parents – and gave you that scar.”

Harry reached up to touch it. Before today, it had been just another mark, one he’d believed had come from the Dursleys when he was too young to remember. But now…

“Yes. Yew, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Curious how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember. I think we all should expect great things from you, Mr Potter. After all, the Dark Lord Voldemort did great things too – _terrible_ , but great.”


	3. The Adventure Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry in advance, but please don't expect this "updates every day" thing to continue. Either that, or expect short chapters. Also, given that apparently Will really did run away with Hannibal and Abigail (apparently), my characterization of them is probably going to be closer to [Texts from Hannibal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4224522/chapters/9552639) than the show.

Lunch with the Malfoys – and indeed the rest of the day with them – was very informative. If their appearance alone had not been enough, the sheer breadth and depth of their knowledge made it clear that their family had status in the wizarding world. They were also very astute guides, effortlessly explaining everything Harry needed for his first year and giving recommendations on all kinds of subjects, from what potions ingredients he would need the most to books that would help them all get caught up with history and what was happening in the wizarding world.

Lucius seemed especially pleased that all of them, but mostly Harry, were showing an interest in the traditions of the wizarding world as they stood, rather than thinking they should be changed to be more like the muggle one. “We have problems with that now,” he told them, “Muggleborns entering our world and seeing our culture and traditions, and calling them wrong, dark, evil, demanding they be changed or outlawed. There are enough people who cater to their desires or even outright agree with them, and so the changes are made, but then the muggleborns leave our world, and use their magic for their own gain in the muggle world, leaving us stuck with the consequences.”

On their way home with Harry’s supplies, his new owl having flown ahead to the house, Will said, “He sided with the Dark Lord.”

“You’re sure?” Hannibal stated more than asked, looking up from a book on wizarding politics.

“Absolutely. The way he spoke about muggleborn witches and wizards and wizarding culture, and then in Ollivander’s I’m positive he was about to call Harry’s mother a slur – or something that _is_ a slur to wizards. The respect was real, though. He acknowledged her power. So did Narcissa.”

“Is he a danger to Harry?” Hannibal asked quietly.

Will was silent for a moment. “Not yet,” he said finally, “He thinks his lord is gone, and so he has more to gain from being our friend than our foe. He seems to think that if Harry shows enough interest in the ‘Old Ways,’ he’ll be able to use his apparent fame to drum up support and get restrictions removed.”

“You think we should let him.”

“I think he’s in a perfect position to help us keep Harry, stop this Dumbledore from taking him even with the blood adoption. If _this_ is all it takes-” He jerked his head toward the back seat, where both of their children were reading different books on wizarding history and comparing notes. “-I say we go for it.

“A _cupboard under the stairs_ , Hannibal. He was living in a _cupboard_ , being treated like a _servant_ , and Dumbledore never _once_ checked on him! He might not even know we have him!”

“I know. I’ve done many _monstrous_ things throughout the years, this I will never deny… but nothing like that.”

“And if you ever so much as _think about it_ , I’ll eat you alive,” the man hissed.

“Oh, _dearest_ …”

_“And you will not enjoy it.”_

* * *

They corresponded regularly with the Malfoy family over the rest of the summer, and even arranged for a short “playdate.” The adults talked shop in one of the many parlors in the Malfoy mansion, while the younger ones wandered the grounds, exchanging stories about the magical and muggle worlds. Draco went wide-eyed hearing about TV shows and the Internet, while Harry and Abigail were amazed at Quidditch and gobstones.

For some reason, the Malfoy peacocks absolutely _loved_ Abigail, trailing along behind her the whole time they walked. Some even jumped into her arms, making her laugh, and more than one presented her with one of their long, elegant feathers.

The morning of September 1st found all of them eating a hearty breakfast and checking and rechecking that Harry had everything before they even started loading up the car. Abigail was unquietly snickering over Hannibal and Will’s agitation (while Hedwig stared at them, somehow wearing a look that said she thought they were all mad), before the younger man decided they needed to leave _this fucking instant_ before he changed his mind.

All three of the Malfoys were waiting for them outside the barrier, as promised, and escorted them through to the platform where the Hogwarts Express waited. It was still early yet, only a few people milling about, which gave the boys plenty of time to hug their families and say reasonably private goodbyes before boarding the train.

They chose a compartment near the back to maintain the semblance of privacy, and opened their window so that they could still talk to their families until the whistle blew.

Even Hannibal and Lucius waved goodbye when the train pulled out of the station.

* * *

A few people Draco knew stopped by their compartment during the journey, saying hello when they were introduced, but none stayed for long, eyeing the scar on Harry’s forehead. As a result, they were alone when the door slid open and a hesitant face peered in. Harry smiled gently at the other’s skittishness and said, “Need somewhere to sit?”

A jerky nod from the other boy had him waving to the empty bench beside him. “What’s your name?”

“Neville,” was the reply, “Neville Longbottom. And this is Trevor.” He held up his toad.

“Pleased to meet you, Neville. I’m Harry Potter, and this is my friend, Draco.”

The Malfoy heir looked like he wanted to say something cutting, but instead just nodded a greeting.

“I-I didn’t realize you were coming to Hogwarts this year,” said Neville, eyes wide.

“Neither did I. I didn’t know Hogwarts even existed until a month and a half ago.” Harry caught Trevor when he hopped out of the other boy’s loosened grasp.

Neville’s eyes went even wider, if that was possible. Draco just sighed and shook his head. “I _still_ don’t understand how _you,_ of _all_ people, got sent to live with muggles, and none of us ever knew! We just thought Dumbledore had you squirreled away somewhere in hiding or something. _Any_ wizarding family would have taken you in, _any_ of them!”

“I know my gran tried,” Neville ventured, “She said- she said that your parents were my godparents, and mine were two of yours. She tried, but…” He shook his head sadly.

Will had taught Harry a little of how to read people and gauge their intentions before term began. Even that little bit was enough for Harry to know that Neville was being truthful, or at least believed that what he’d been told was the truth. “It’s all right, Neville,. I mean, my aunt and uncle weren’t great, but my parents now are so much better. I have a sister now, too.”

“What are they like?”

Harry described them. Hannibal was the “stern” parent, still caring but more distant, the “authority figure,” but he didn’t hesitate to give out praise and rewards where they were earned. Will was the more laid back one, content to let Harry and Abigail roll around in the mud with the dogs whenever they wanted as long as they got their schoolwork done. And Abigail – Abigail was the older sibling Harry had wanted instead of cruel Dudley, and Harry was the younger brother Abigail had always wanted and never gotten, someone to teach things to and have fun with, even if they weren’t actually in the same age group. Their experiences made them both mature quickly, and so they were quite close despite the more than ten years between them.

Harry was pulled from the memory of Abigail teaching him to process a deer – and Hannibal saying, “It’s not so different with pigs, too,” and getting Will’s elbow in his side because they all knew _exactly_ what he was talking about – by Draco saying, “You really love them, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do,” said Harry, “I mean, I’m sure my parents loved me, but I never knew them. I _do_ miss them, but… it’s more like I miss the _idea_ of them. I have a new family now, and I love _them_ , and I’d do anything to protect them.” And then he smiled at Neville. “But even so, it’s very nice to meet you, _godbrother._ I hope we can at least be friends.”

Neville smiled back.

* * *

“Harry seems happy.”

“Good.”

The sensation of his son ( _his son!_ )’s emotions had grown faint with the distance between them, but Will was still the best at reading people and was also far more sensitive to their collective bond. Harry _was_ happy, practically glowing with it like a distant fire. Will closed his eyes and basked in the warmth.

When they had first taken the boy in, he had been concerned – _extremely_ concerned – about how they would all fit together. Harry had had an abusive family, it was true, but _their_ particular brand of madness was so far beyond that that the light from it would take a million years to reach them.

But Harry had come in with surprising ease – and Hannibal had shown remarkable restraint when it came to treating the boy for trauma. Part of it had been Will threatening to take both of their children and disappear – or worse, go back to _Jack_ – if he did anything excessive. Will could handle Hannibal messing around in _his_ mind, but he wouldn’t let the other High Wendigo hurt their children, especially not the most innocent one. The other part was no one was sure how Harry’s magic would react to Hannibal’s particular form of “rearranging.”

They had discovered his magic on accident. Hannibal had been putting the kettle on for tea a few days after they brought Harry home, and the boy had been helping him by getting down the teacups, when one slipped from his grasp to shatter on the stone floor. It had been an accident, truly; Will had seen it happen, even if he hadn’t been fast enough to prevent it.

Harry had panicked and frantically tried to gather up all the pieces before any of them could stop him.

But by the time the closest (Hannibal) reached him, the teacup had already snapped back together in his hands, glowing under the kitchen lights.

Even after discovering it had been magic – _real_ magic – Hannibal had taken it as a sign and held their family sacred after that, damned near becoming a helicopter parent before Will told him to calm down. (Will was actually just as bad, though more subtle. Only the two of them knew and understood how potent a symbol the rejoined teacup was for them.)

It had taken more than a year after that for Harry to use his magic intentionally for the first time, and it had taken a _lot_ for the seven-year-old to muster up the force of will – the pure _intent_ – and focus needed. He had been exhausted afterwards, barely managing to swallow down a sandwich and some water before passing out for half a day.

Hannibal’s mind-palace training had helped in that regard, although Harry’s skills were only rudimentary – he was still a child after all.

Abigail hadn’t been jealous, much to Will’s surprise – and her own. When he asked her why, she had said, “Our family… we’re _not normal_. We’re little, and broken, but still good.”

He’d snorted at that. She had grinned, then continued, “It was nice before him, too – not like back in Minnesota – but I was still… lonely. There was no one my age – or closer to my age than yours – that I could talk to, after… after.

“I always wanted a sibling, even before everything started back there. And now I’ve got a little brother, and he’s _not normal_ , too – maybe not in the same way as the three of us, but he – he _understands_. I can talk to him about this, and he won’t- he doesn’t look at me like I’m a freak. It’s… It’s nice. _Really_ nice.”

Now both of them were leaving, heading off on their own self-driven adventures. Even though they had promised to return, the house felt empty with just him and Hannibal – too quiet, too still. He was too used to picking up the sounds of one youngling or another moving about, making noise elsewhere in the house. The silence left by their absence made the manor feel more like a mausoleum.

Will turned and stepped right into Hannibal’s arms, burying his face in the other man’s neck. “I want to go hunting,” he growled, “I need to get out of the house, out of my own head.”

“I found out the address of that man we saw beating his dog two weeks ago, if you wish to kill two birds with one stone.”

Will grinned with a mouth full of sharp teeth and pressed a kiss to his husband’s skin.


	4. The Hill of Sorcery

Hogwarts was everything he’d imagined and more. Harry had to keep reminding himself to look down as he walked so he didn’t trip, but he was equally pleased he wasn’t the only one. His year mates were also gaping up at the massive castle on the mountainside, even Draco.

Before they climbed into the boats on the shore of the lake, Harry used every technique his father had ever taught him to fix that image of the castle in his mind, high and untouched by the cares of the world, surrounded by stars, with lights glowing in every window to lead them all home. When he was able to close his eyes and see the castle as if they were still open, he climbed into a boat with Draco, Neville, and a boy he recognized from the train as Blaise Zabini.

They were about halfway across the lake when a red-haired boy in a boat ahead of them stood up, overbalanced, and fell into the water. There were cries of alarm from their year mates, but Harry didn’t panic. He refused to – he’d been taught better (panic is careless is a trail is a death sentence). He’d been (playfully) hunted by one of humankind’s few predators (as training); someone falling into a lake was nothing to flip out over.

He directed Draco to sit at the center of their boat and hang on to Harry’s waist, while Blaise and Neville held on to Draco from the far side of the boat. As they passed the struggling student, Harry grabbed ahold of him, and together all four of them successfully heaved him into their boat, although it rocked dangerously.

The boy coughed and sputtered but managed a wet “Thanks!”

Their boat sailed on to join the others in a small harbor in a cavern under the castle. The enormous bearded man who had led them from the train – Hagrid, the groundskeeper – bustled over to make sure the swimmer was all right. The boy assured him he was, so he led their group toward the castle.

“Thanks back there,” said the boy even as he wrung out his robes, “I’m not sure what happened. I just wanted to get a better look at the castle. I’m Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley.”

Draco burst out laughing, but muffled it to snickers when Harry shot him an unimpressed, exasperated look. “Please ignore my friend here; he doesn’t know any better,” he said dryly (which earned an indignant “Hey!), “I’m Harry Potter.”

The other boy’s jaw dropped, wide brown eyes taking in his face before flicking up to his forehead. Harry rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and pushed his hair back so Ron could see the scar even in the dim lighting.

“ _Wicked_ ,” said Ron.

Harry introduced Draco and Neville, and subtly reminded the former that same house or not, he was more or less stuck with the same group of people for the next seven years, directly or indirectly. It wouldn’t do to make lifelong enemies so early. “You want to go into Slytherin, don’t you? So use that Slytherin cunning, and pick your battles. Ones such as this are better left unfought – at least for now.” That had been one of the first things Will had taught him (although at the time it had been about helping Hannibal in the kitchen. The eldest High Wendigo had maintained that he had been too young; Harry had been determined to prove him wrong).

Together, they followed Hagrid to the doors of the castle, where he knocked heavily.

The doors opened almost immediately. A stern-looking woman stood there, dressed in deep green robes, calling her Professor McGonagall. Harry studied her as she led them to a small chamber off the castle’s entrance hall.

Once they were gathered inside, she said, “Welcome to Hogwarts. The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because while you are here, your house will be like your family. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.” She went on to name the four houses and explain about the House Cup, then said, “The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.” Her gaze lingered on several people, most notably a still-damp Ron. “I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly.”

When she had gone, Ron swallowed and turned to the others. “Do any of you know how they ‘sort’ us? Fred – one of my brothers – said it was a test that hurts a lot, but I think he was joking.”

The paleness of his face said otherwise. Draco was looking a bit peaky, too, and Neville was as white as a sheet, clutching Trevor tight enough that Harry felt compelled to take the toad from him before he killed it on accident. “It sounds like Fred was pulling your leg, Ron,” said Harry, “None of us would be here if the Sorting was painful – well, most of us. Our parents wouldn’t allow it. And considering that we’re so young and there are people among us who probably haven’t even _looked_ at their books since they were purchased, it’s probably not going to be a test of magical skill, either.” He noticed that Draco started looking anywhere but at his face. “It’s probably going to be something simple, so _relax_ , Neville.”

The boy looked reassured at that, and so did several people around them who had undoubtedly been eavesdropping.

After an unexpected encounter with the castle’s ghosts, they were led into the Great Hall. The rest of the student body was already seated at long tables in the main section of the hall, with the teachers at a perpendicular table on a dais at the far end from the door.

McGonagall led them up to a stool in front of the teachers’ table. On the stool was a hat, a worn and patched wizard’s hat, the point sagging with age. Harry raised an eyebrow at it, right before a rip near the brim opened and the hat started to sing. It sang cheerfully about Hogwarts and the four houses, but other things it said made Harry curious. It could read his mind? Thanks to his father, he knew there were things about himself that even he didn’t know, so it made him intensely curious about what the Hat would see and where it would place him.

Draco went to Slytherin, of course. The hat barely touched his head before it shouted its decision to the Hall.

Neville went to Hufflepuff after a few minutes of deliberation. The boy looked relieved, and ran to his House’s table with the Hat still on his head.

When Harry’s name was called, the whole hall went silent. As he walked up, he glimpsed a number of students craning their heads or climbing up onto their benches to get a good look at him as he climbed the steps to the stool. He sat, and Professor McGonagall placed the Hat on his head.

‘ _Oh_ my,’ said the Hat inside his mind, _‘Difficult,_ very _difficult. So many aspects of each of the Houses, yet each tempered by another. Loyal but not blind, brave but not foolhardy, cunning but not cruel, and intelligent but not unwise._ Very _difficult indeed.’_

‘Is that going to be a problem?’ Harry asked the Hat.

 _‘Certainly not. I’ll get you sorted eventually, but_ where? _That’s the crux of it. Hmm… Everywhere I look I see aspects of each House. You’re loyal to your friends and family, willing to go anything to protect them, even charge into battle head-first, but that is tempered by the knowledge that many of them can take care of themselves.’_

It pondered a few moments more. _‘You’re very aware of yourself and your limits, too – so wise for one so young. Now that you have the freedom to learn, you’re eager to do so, and eager to prove yourself. Rather be known for what you can_ do _, rather than what was done_ to _you, eh?’_

Harry smiled a little. It was true. He had looked himself up, him and this “Dark Lord,” and decided exactly that. It was more likely that his parents had done some sort of spell or ritual or something to protect him – _they_ should be the ones being damned-near worshipped; he was just the recipient of whatever blessing they had imparted. He wanted to be _himself_ first and foremost, not “The Boy Who Lived.”

 _‘That settles it, then,’_ said the Hat, _‘Hufflepuff would do you no good, loyal and hardworking though you are – they tend to stay out of the limelight, fade into the background, which isn’t what you want. Gryffindor is out, too – your brave soul would fit well there, but they would shun you and tear you apart if ever you took a less-than-purely-noble path, which surely you will; your Slytherin side will do whatever it takes to achieve your goals. But a true Slytherin wouldn’t have hesitated to take advantage of their existing fame and propel themselves to further glory. You want to start fresh and learn all you can to make a_ different _name for yourself._

_‘Good luck, Mr Potter. I look forward to seeing what you can do in-‘_

“RAVENCLAW!”


	5. Courage and Wisdom

Harry dashed off a quick letter to his family the next morning, telling them about his new friends, the sorting, and how he’d slept, and finished by saying that he would write more at the end of the week.

(He made no mention of the truly _odd_ looks he got from several people when he sat with Draco at breakfast, and waved Ron and Neville over to join them. One of the looks came from a man Draco identified as Severus Snape, the potions professor and Head of Slytherin House. He looked pained, almost wistful, when he saw them all sitting together.)

The rest of the week was largely uneventful, despite his flocks of admirers. He ignored them for the most part, content with the friends he had already made and a few people he knew in passing from introductions from said friends – the Slytherins from the train, the other Weasley siblings, a few Hufflepuffs, and a Ravenclaw year mate named Anthony Goldstein.

Most of his classes were with Neville and the Hufflepuffs, which was good because the other boy needed all the help he could get in Potions. The rest of his classes he did all right in – not failing, but nothing exceptional either – but the very first time they went down the steps to the dungeons for class, Neville paled and swallowed thickly before following Harry down the steps.

“It’ll be all right, Neville,” he said as they approached the classroom, “We can work together since we’re in the same class. I’ll help you.”

Everything about Professor Snape seemed calculated to intimidate, however, from the darkness of the classroom to the way his robes billowed behind him when he walked to the speech he gave them when he entered. When he called attendance, he lingered over Harry’s name, but with distain rather than admiration like the other professors.

Harry braced himself in preparation for some sort of quiz or attack, but surprisingly Snape went for the rest of the class before coming for him. “Potter! Where would I find a bezoar?”

“The stomach of a goat, sir,” Harry answered right away. He’d seen that bit of trivia in his textbook and remembered thinking it was _very_ odd, so the information stuck in his mind.

Snape’s eyebrows briefly flicked up in surprise. “And the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

“None, sir. They’re the same plant.” That he knew from his herbology textbook, but he’d learned it first from wilderness survival training with Abigail and his dad. “I think it also goes by aconite?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Indeed it does. Why haven’t the rest of you been writing all of this down?”

The rest of the class passed in relative ease, Harry quietly helping Neville with his potion while Snape watched him with a _different_ odd expression on his face. Despite that, Harry and Neville brewed their potions successfully, with Snape declaring them both “acceptable” when class was over.

Snape’s odd look followed him until the door shut behind him.

* * *

“According to my father, who went to school with Uncle Severus and your parents,” said Draco a few days later, speed-reading the letter the man had sent in response to Harry’s question, their group ambling out of the Great Hall, “Uncle Severus was sweet on your mother even before school started, but something happened and they parted ways, though he never forgot her. Your father bullied him – and most of Slytherin House, actually – so they hated each other.”

“Sounds like he and I are going to have a love-hate relationship for the rest of my schooling,” said Harry, chewing thoughtfully on his last slice of toast, “Probably leaning more towards hate. I’ve heard from people who knew my parents that I look like my father, but with my mother’s eyes.”

“I could talk to him,” the Slytherin offered, but Harry shook his head.

“Thanks for offering, but it’s all right. He has to figure out that I’m not James Potter on his own. Anyone _telling_ him that’ll probably just make him dig his heels in to prove that I _am_.”

“That sounds like the voice of experience talking, Mr Potter.”

They all jumped and whirled around to see that Professor Snape had come up out of the dungeons just as they left the Great Hall. Harry swallowed a little, wondering how explicit he could be, then said, “Back when they lived in the States, my – _current_ fathers, were involved in a similar but much more complex situation. My father tried to force my dad to make a certain decision and take a certain position, but my dad fought back and it very nearly ended badly for _everyone_ involved. They wanted to make sure I would learn from their mistake, so I didn’t have to learn that for myself the hard way.”

“Mm. Get to class. I’m not going to excuse you if you’re late.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

“His _fathers?_ Albus! You told us he was living with blood relatives!”

“He _was_ ,” McGonagall said to Sprout, “I was there when he was dropped off with his aunt and uncle.”

“With _Tuney_?!” Snape said sharply, bolting upright, before whirling on Dumbledore, “You left _him_ with Lily’s _magic-hating sister?!_ Even _Black_ would have been a better option than _her!_ ”

The potions professor’s words caused an uproar in the staff room, much to the bemusement of passing prefects. Dumbledore eventually calmed everyone and informed them about the blood wards, which was why he had sent Harry to her. “Then what happened?” Snape demanded icily, “I say Tuney’s husband _once_ , years ago – he had no interest in other men and hated magic as much as she did, so _clearly_ Potter is no longer living with them. Do we know how long this has been the case? Did you even check on the boy?”

“Yes, last when he was four, and I spoke to Petunia; she assured me he was doing well.”

“When he was _FOUR?!_ ”

That caused another uproar that ended in Snape storming out in a swirl of black robes.

All the while, Quirrell sat quietly in the corner, dark eyes glinting.

* * *

Halloween. One of Harry’s favorite holidays, since it meant he could wander around holding the hand of a fully-transformed High Wendigo and snicker behind his hand when they got nothing more than an “Awesome costume!” Hannibal enjoyed hiding in plain sight like that. Will did too, now.

The feast made up for the fact that he wasn’t home, with floating jack o’lanterns above the tables and swarms of real bats darting around. Harry and his friends were sitting at the Gryffindor table for the feast. As they took their seats, they all overheard Parvati Patil saying that a Gryffindor girl – Hermione Granger – was hiding in the girls’ bathroom, crying over something Ron said to her after Charms.

Harry shot the other boy a look, and Ron looked away, turning nearly as red as his hair. But then the food appeared on the tables, and Harry didn’t think anything further of it until Professor Quirrell burst through the hall doors, shouting, “ _TROLL IN THE DUNGEONS! Troll in the dungeons!”_ He staggered to a stop between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables. “Thought you ought to know,” he managed, and then fell to the floor in a dead faint.

Chaos reigned in the hall until several bangs from the Headmaster’s wand silenced the cries. He called for the teachers to follow him while the prefects led their houses back to their dormitories.

Harry saw the flaw with that plan very quickly, sitting face to face with a Slytherin as he was. Their dorm was in the dungeons.

With the troll.

He shot to his feet and shouted, “Prefect Clearwater! The Slytherin dormitory is in the dungeons! Can they come to Ravenclaw Tower with us?!”

The prefects of both houses looked at each other, all of them realizing that he was right. “All right!” she shouted, “Slytherin House, follow us! Stay close – let’s go!”

“Come on,” he said to his friends, “We’re going to look for Hermione. She doesn’t know!”

Draco cursed his Gryffindor tendencies aloud, but they all followed him out of the hall towards the nearest and most likely girls’ bathroom, hiding behind statues and suits of armor to evade discovery by prefects – and Snape, of all people. Draco stared after him with a confused expression, but turned back to follow Harry.

The troll beat them there, slouching into the girls’ bathroom with its club scraping along the floor behind it.

There was a scream from within, and all of them sprinted for the door. The four boys entered the bathroom to see the troll advancing on Hermione, knocking sinks off the wall with its club as it went.

None of them had very long, Harry knew; they were just kids, and couldn’t hope to stand up against a fully grown mountain troll so he tried to think fast. He had read ahead in all his books, but first-years didn’t know any spells with enough power behind them-

His eyes fell on the wet floor.

…But maybe he didn’t need one.

He focused on the image of the water on the floor freezing solid, becoming smooth and slippery, the temperature of the room dropping sharply and his breath coming in clouds. Then he pointed his wand at the water and pushed the power through.

Just as he had willed, the water chilled and solidified, fresh water spraying from the broken taps and coating the ice, making for extremely slippery ground. The troll started wobbling almost immediately, windmilling its arms in an attempt to keep its feet.

“Granger, come on!” Draco cried, waving her towards them, and Hermione started crawling in their direction.

The troll spotted her, and flailed its club in her direction – only to have Ron cry, “ _Wingardium leviosa!_ ” The spell caught the club mid-swing and yanked it out of the troll’s hand, causing it to overbalance. It fell back, and cracked its skull against the stone floor, rendering it immediately unconscious. When it didn’t move, Ron released his spell, letting the club hit the ground with another tremendous crash.

The sound of running feet made them all pull together, Draco and Neville sheltering Hermione between them while Harry and Ron leaped in front of them, wands raised, only to lower them almost immediately. It was the teachers – Professors Snape, McGonagall, and Quirrell.

McGonagall’s eyes swept the room, took everything in, and then locked on them with cold fury. “What were you all thinking?!” she demanded, “You all could have been killed! Why aren’t you in your dormitories?!”

Harry was about to explain about overhearing Hermione being missing, leaving Ron’s part out, when the boy himself stepped up and said, “I-It was my fault, Professor.” He shuddered when she turned the full force of her stony gaze on him, but forged ahead anyway. “Earlier today, I… said some very unkind things about Hermione, which she overheard. That ended up with her not being at the feast, so she didn’t know about the troll. We all came to look for her, and, well...” He gestured to the troll and the destroyed bathroom.

“Is this true?” McGonagall asked the others, who nodded. The professor let out an angry yet relieved sigh and said, “Very well. Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr Weasley, and apologize to Miss Granger.”

Ron turned and briefly met the girl’s gaze before his eyes fell to his feet. “I’m sorry, Hermione,” he said glumly, “I was jealous, ‘cause I’ve known about magic all my life, but you’re already so much better then I am.”

Draco and Neville stepped back when Hermione straightened. “I accept your apology,” she said, still sounding a little shaky, “and maybe we should practice together.”

Ron looked up, and beamed.

McGonagall had a tiny smile on her lips, though she was still a mix of angry and relieved. “And fifteen points will be awarded to each of you – for _sheer dumb luck_. But I trust none of you will try anything like this again. Next time, get a teacher. Return to your dormitories.”

“Yes, professor,” they all chorused, and left the bathroom grinning at each other.

* * *

Harry and Draco got scoldings from their respective prefects when they finally entered Ravenclaw Tower, but when they were told the troll had been taken care of, a pair of Slytherin prefects went in search of their Head of House.

The rest of the Slytherins and a number of Ravenclaws were sitting in the common room, eating the leftovers of the feast and talking in low tones. The two of them went over to sit near Blaise and a girl Draco said was Daphne Greengrass, Crabbe and Goyle taking up their positions at Draco’s shoulders.

Neither he nor Harry could stop smiling.


	6. Flight of the Imagination

“But where was he _going_?”

The five of them – since Hermione had been battle-bonded into their group – were huddled around a table in a corner of the library, finally discussing what they had seen Snape doing on Halloween.

“That’s one of the ways up to Gryffindor Tower from the first floor,” Ron suggested.

“It also goes right by the forbidden corridor,” Hermione added.

“That’s the more likely answer,” said Harry, “especially since Professor Snape doesn’t like Gryffindor. But why is that corridor forbidden? Does anyone know?”

All the others shook their heads. “I asked Fred and George,” Ron offered, “and they said it wasn’t forbidden before this year, just empty.”

“If it was empty before, it’s obviously _not_ now,” said Draco, “but that begs the question: what did they put there? What’s the Headmaster hiding?”

They all looked at each other. Then Neville said, “Maybe whatever someone tried to steal from his Gringotts vault.”

“What?”

“Someone tried to steal from _Gringotts_?”

“The _Headmaster’s_ vault?”

“Yeah, it happened over the summer, right after my birthday,” the boy said, “My gran sat in on the investigator’s report – they said that the vault had been broken into by an unknown Dark wizard, but it had actually been emptied earlier that same day.”

“I remember hearing about that,” Draco added, “There was an article in the _Prophet_. I didn’t know the vault belonged to Professor Dumbledore, though.”

“Yeah, him and some other guy – Nicolas Flamel?”

“Who’s that?”

None of them knew, not until weeks later when Neville sprinted up to Harry and shoved a chocolate frog card in his hands before doubling over, panting.

It was Dumbledore’s card. Harry read the caption, then gasped and read it aloud for the benefit of the others. “-twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and _his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel!_ ”

“Good job, Neville!” said Ron, and the other boy beamed.

That led to a flurry of research on alchemy. Ultimately, a passing comment from Draco led Hermione to the right book. She let the massive tome thump down on the table between them all and cracked it open, all of the others rising to get a better look. “I knew it!” she crowed in a whisper, “ _I knew it!_ Nicolas Flamel is the only known maker of _the Sorcerer’s Stone!_ ”

“The _what?_ ” said the others together.

She read the passage aloud to them, emphasizing the characteristics of the Stone and how old Flamel really was (six hundred and sixty-five) thanks to the Elixir of Immortality.

“No wonder we couldn’t find him in anything more recent,” said Ron, “He wouldn’t exactly be in that _Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry_ if he’s over six hundred, now would he?”

* * *

That solved the problem of the ‘what’ and also the ‘why’; even Neville openly admitted that the Stone was definitely worth stealing, if it was possible.

But then the Christmas holidays came, and everyone but Ron went home to their families.

Harry didn’t realize how much he actually missed Hannibal, Will, and Abigail until he saw them waiting for him on the platform. Almost immediately, his heart clenched and tears filled his eyes, but he kept his composure long enough to disembark with all his school stuff, before getting swept up in one of his sister’s fierce hugs. He squeezed back as hard as he could with his weaker human muscles, before being handed off to his fathers.

Will held him for several long minutes, Hannibal’s arms wrapped around them both, before he put the boy back on his feet. Harry quickly wiped his eyes and composed himself enough to introduce his family to Hermione’s parents and Neville’s grandmother, and to accept Draco’s invitation to the Malfoys’ Yule Ball.

It was even better – or perhaps worse? – at home. He had grown used to rooming with the other boys, but it was nice to be back in familiar territory, his own room with at least a modicum of privacy. He put his trunk at the end of his bed but only unpacked his clothes and what he needed for homework, so he didn’t have to _re_ -pack _everything_ at the end of the holiday.

Hannibal’s feast put everything at Hogwarts to shame, even if only by elegance and richness. Over dinner, they all heard more detail about Abigail’s experience at college – she was actually rooming with a _werewolf!_ Upon sniffing out what she actually was, the werewolf – a young man by the name of David Kessler – begged for her help in controlling his feral self, which resulted in a werewolf following a High Wendigo around an ancient wood not too far from campus when the moon was full.

“I’m sure there’s something in the magical world that could help, if you want me to look into it,” Harry offered.

“I’ll ask when I get back, but the answer will probably be yes.”

Then it was Harry’s turn. He told them about the school, about Professor Snape and their history and – well, not _peace_ but at least ceasefire, about what he was learning in all his classes, even if he wasn’t allowed to show them – no magic outside of Hogwarts until he came of age. He also gave more detail about the fiasco with the troll, as well as the third floor corridor.

Hannibal frowned sharply at that. “I was under the impression that this was a _school._ ”

“It is.”

“Then why is this Sorcerer’s Stone in a school full of curious children? Why not in the middle of a deserted location, somewhere where no one else knows where it is? What kind of protections are in place to stop students wandering into this corridor despite the Headmaster’s warning? Do these protections differentiate between mistaken students and true thieves? What protections does the _school_ have to stop said thieves from just _walking in_ and killing everyone in their way?-"

He would have continued had Will not laid a hand on his thigh. “We’re concerned,” said the younger man.

A couple of those things had occurred to Harry and he said as much, and also said that he and his friends avoided the area for those exact reasons. He hadn’t heard of anyone trying to force their way in – yet.

* * *

An invisibility cloak.

An unknown individual had sent him an invisibility cloak for Christmas, one that had belonged to his father according to the note that came with it. Harry briefly wondered if he would find it listed among the magical artifacts in the audit of his accounts (which were more extensive than either he or the goblins had first thought – the audit _still_ wasn’t finished). But it hadn’t taken an ounce of Ravenclaw wisdom or Slytherin cleverness to guess that Dumbledore was the one who sent it – but for what purpose? Obviously to be used, Harry mused as he let the silvery fabric slide between his fingers, but how? Was Dumbledore expecting him to become foolish and think he couldn’t be caught?

Hannibal had already said he wasn’t to wear it in the house, even though every single other resident (dogs included) would be able to hear and smell him coming.

“Maybe I should just leave it with you all. It would make your hunts easier.”

“ _Too_ easy,” Will replied, carefully brushing out Toast’s fur, “Your father and I are more capable than that, and have no desire to breed laziness. Thanks for offering, though.”

Applesauce and Pancake wandered over to sniff at the unusual cloth, before Pancake burrowed under it and came up looking like half a dog, then shook it off. Then Oreo seemed to think it was time to have some fun, because he pounced on Pancake, and all three of them raced off.

At his request, Abigail had given him _Universe: The Definitive Visual Guide_ and a number of other textbooks from the college bookstore, because while interesting, his Astronomy textbook was terribly out of date and included almost nothing on Muggle discoveries. There was nothing on discoveries by space probes, asteroids beyond Vesta and Juno, the Shoemaker-Levy 9 impacts, the dwarf planets past Pluto and Pluto’s own downgraded status, other star systems and galaxies… the list went on. While he didn’t want to start anything with Professor Sinistra, he did want to have the most up-to-date education possible. If that meant relying on the Muggle world and making inferences from their work, it was no skin off his nose; he was no prejudiced pureblood.

His fathers had gotten him several gifts as well, most notably a difficult potion to correct his vision. Harry had carefully read the instructions that came with the bottle and followed them to the letter. His eyes were still prickling, but his vision was growing clearer by the minute, his glasses folded on the end table next to him.

His friends had sent him an assortment of gifts, and he, them: sweets, books, toys, and baubles. Once his vision was fixed, Harry planned on reading the book Lucius Malfoy had sent him. Although technically illegal to even own, it gave an overview of the history of wizarding traditions, the days of power, and methods for rituals. It was quite thick – probably could have been broken up into two or even three books – and he was looking forward to reading it. Of course, since it was illegal, he would have to leave it at home during the school year. That made him antsy to get started, so he could get through as much of it as possible.

* * *

He was fortunate in that the children weren’t expected to dance at the Malfoys’ Ball but instead socialized amongst themselves. In the process, Harry was reintroduced to many of the people he’d met on the train, plus more – mostly adults, via Lucius. A subtle power play, he knew, a deflection of suspicion – “My son and I have befriended the Boy-Who-Lived; we couldn’t possibly be Dark wizards.”

Harry found that he didn’t mind; socializing like this wasn’t very different from Hannibal’s fancy dinner parties. And in the process he made some very useful contacts, including the Minister of Magic himself, Cornelius Fudge. Although their conversation was very brief, Harry was very careful to make a good impression on the Minister, making sure that the man would remember him as more than just his title.

He spent the rest of the ball observing Will keeping Hannibal on an incredibly short leash, and talking with the Slytherins about their history and culture. Once they found out that he was genuine in his interest, they nearly talked his ears off about the world he now shared with them.

* * *

According to Ron, who’d stayed behind, nothing had happened over Christmas break. Snape had stuck to the dungeons, and no one had even approached the forbidden corridor while the boy was watching.

The very first night Harry went out wandering with the invisibility cloak, he went straight to the restricted section to browse the books. As he was sure there _had_ to be protections in place to prevent them from being read without permission, for the time being he was scribbling down titles of things that looked interesting, hoping he would be able to mail-order them, either from Diagon or somewhere else. Occlumency especially; from the subtitles of a few of the books, he gathered that it was a magical version of his father’s mind palace. Perhaps the books would have some tips for all of them.

On his way back to Ravenclaw Tower, he was forced to duck into an unused classroom to avoid Argus Filch and his cat, Mrs Norris. Harry paused and hovered just beyond the door, waiting with baited breath until the sound of Filch’s footsteps retreating reached his ears. Then he gave the classroom a quick glance before – stopping, and looking around again.

In one corner of the room was a tall, gilt-framed mirror that shimmered strangely in the moonlight coming from the windows. Harry drew his wand and hesitantly approached the mirror, only to let his hand fall.

The mirror showed the image of a massive library somewhere, full of shelves and shelves and shelves of books, Dark and Light, legal and not. At the heart of the library was a fireplace of white stone, gilded with gold filigree and surrounded by tables, armchairs, and couches.

His family was there, but not just Hannibal, Will, and Abigail – there were two other people who must have been his parents, Lily and James Potter. The former was poring over a stack of books and parchment with Hannibal, the two of them deep in discussion while James, Will, and Abigail threw tennis balls down the rows for the dogs.

But standing front and center was himself, older, taller, graceful, elegant, long dark hair pulled away from his face and green eyes nearly glowing with power. He was holding some books to his chest, and Harry got a glimpse of the title of the first: _A Comprehensive History of Wizarding Traditions and Culture for Muggles and Muggle-Borns, Volume 1_.

By _Harry Potter_.

There was another book behind it: _Biology and Genetics for Witches and Wizards, or Why You Shouldn’t Marry Your Cousins_ , also by Harry Potter. And a third and a fourth whose titles he couldn’t see.

His older self smiled slightly, and Harry had to blink back tears.

* * *

“Back again, Harry?”

The boy jumped to his feet as the Headmaster entered the room, clutching his invisibility cloak to his chest. He had been watching the other him work with Hannibal and his mother over a pile of parchments of varying ages, writing notes in a journal of some sort, and so he hadn’t heard the man approaching. He said as much – the last part, at least.

Dumbledore just smiled and said, “So you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised.”

“Is that what it’s called, sir?”

“Indeed. Do you understand what it does?”

“‘I show not your face, but your heart’s desire,’” Harry quoted.

“Indeed,” the older wizard said with a smile, coming over to stand next to the younger, before his face fell. “Men have wasted away before the Mirror, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.”

“I know my desire’s impossible. Part of it, anyway – my parents are dead.”

“It is good that you understand that. Even magic cannot bridge the gap between life and death,” the Headmaster said solemnly, “The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. But, if you ever _do_ run across it, now you will be prepared.”


	7. Blood and Glory

Their group wound up setting their own shifts to watch the forbidden corridor, because the teachers were suddenly busy containing a dragon that the groundskeeper Hagrid had mysteriously “acquired” until it could be shipped off to a sanctuary in Romania – the same one Charlie Weasley worked at, according to Ron. All the while, the end of the year drew closer, first crawling while they studied, then flying while they took their exams.

In the end, Neville was the one who came running to find them all; an unknown person had entered the third floor corridor, hooded and cloaked, unlocking the door with a simple _Alohamora_ and nearly gliding inside.

All of the teachers – and most of the student body – were out on the grounds, watching and gossiping as the dragon was sedated for transport. Dumbledore himself had been called to the Ministry, apparently about the dragon in question, an endangered Norwegian Ridgeback.

There was no one but them.

“Are you _sure_ you aren’t a Gryffindor?!” Draco shouted as they pelted through the halls, “Because I’m beginning to question the Hat’s choice!”

“Only beginning to? Come now, Draco!” Harry laughed, “And I won’t deny that the Hat did consider it – but then, it considered Hufflepuff and Slytherin, too!”

* * *

The door had locked behind the unknown person ( _could_ it have been Professor Snape? Harry could have _sworn_ he saw the man down on the lawn, helping with the dragon – but then again, magic). Another _Alohamora_ was sufficient to open it again, revealing a tight room with a massive Cerberus, asleep, one of its paws half-covering a wooden trapdoor.

A harp stood off to one side, playing a tune Harry didn’t recognize; it must have been something from the wizarding world. Yet the charm on it seemed to be wearing off even as he watched; it was playing slower and quieter with every passing second, and the giant dog was beginning to stir.

Thinking quickly – and hard about one of the simplest tunes his father had taught him to play – Harry padded over to the harp as fast as he could with a minimum of noise, and tapped the instrument with his wand. Almost immediately, the tune picked up again, and changed to the one he had been thinking about. The dog dropped back to sleep.

They all breathed a sigh of relief. Then, working together, they moved the dog’s huge paw off the trapdoor before pulling it open.

Darkness yawned below them. Draco swallowed thickly.

Ron noticed. “Maybe you should go back to the dungeons, Malfoy,” he sneered, “with the rest of the snakes.”

Draco’s fear turned to a glare. “Screw you, Weasel, don’t tell me what to do,” he shot back, and jumped.

“ _Hey!_ ” Ron jumped after him.

There must have been something to land on, because the rest of them heard two soft thumps followed by the boys continuing to argue, same as they had all year. Harry exchanged exasperated glances with Hermione, then turned to Neville. They boy was practically quaking where he stood, looking down into the void, although he looked a little bit more reassured now that he knew there was something below.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, Neville,” said Harry, “I don’t want you to feel like you have to, just because we’re your friends.”

“I-I know,” the other boy stuttered, “I-I want to help you, however I can.”

“If you’re sure.”

When the other boy nodded, Harry jumped down after the others.

There _was_ something soft below, a vine-y plant – a plant that made Neville yelp when he landed on it. “Devil’s snare! Move, move! Conjure some light, or even better some fire!”

Hermione responded immediately, flicking balls of fire from the tip of her wand to hover around everyone. The devil’s snare retreated quickly, leaving them free to struggle through the thick vines to the next area.

The next test was a room filled with flying keys, with brooms on a rack on one wall. Draco and Ron were the only ones who had real experience with flying, so they raced after the key that matched the handle on the door to the next area. It took them several tries, but in the end, Ron chased it in Draco’s direction, and the other boy nearly fell off his broom catching it.

“Merlin,” he said as he landed, holding tight to the struggling key, “With as much as we all pay in tuition every year, you’d think this school could afford better brooms!”

“It might have been done on purpose,” said Harry, accepting the key, “but I do think that that is the more likely explanation.”

In the next room was a massive chess set, where Ron proved he was more than just another Weasley. Even Draco was impressed at Ron’s skill with strategy, and said under no uncertain terms that they would be playing chess in the near future, once they got out of there.

Unfortunately, Ron had to sacrifice both himself and Neville to let Draco get their checkmate. The Hufflepuff was woozy but conscious when the game ended, but Ron was out cold. Harry gave both of them a cursory examination, using basic first aid he had learned from Hannibal, and determined that Neville had a concussion and, while not severe enough to be immediately fatal, Ron had some internal bleeding and wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon.

“Draco.”

“Yes?”

“You’re the best flier out of those of us left. Can you take one of the brooms from the key room and get these two to the hospital wing? They need medical attention, and I don’t know how long this will take.”

The Ravenclaw and Slytherin heaved the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff one at a time back into the key room while Hermione held the door. It took some doing and he would have to fly slowly, but eventually Draco had Ron secure on his broom and set off.

Then Hermione and Harry headed back across the chessboard to the next room, where they found a massive troll out cold. It was even bigger than the one from Halloween and stunk to high heaven. It showed no signs of stirring, so they hurried on.

The following room had seven bottles in a row and a roll of parchment on a table – and vicious flames that blazed to life when the door shut behind them, blocking both advance and retreat. The roll of parchment held a logic puzzle that, by unspoken consent, they both worked out separately before sharing their thoughts.

Both of them agreed: the tiniest bottle would get them through the black fire towards the Stone and -  _whoever_ , and the bottle on the far right would take them backwards.

But the tiny bottle was barely enough for one swallow for one of them, much less one for each, and if Harry guessed right, the bottles wouldn’t refill until the room was empty.

“Go back and help Draco. Get Neville to the hospital wing, then send Hedwig for the headmaster,” he told the Gryffindor, “I don’t think it’s Snape, I saw him on the lawn right before we came here, but I don’t know, magic. Either way, we need _someone_ who’s not a student. I’ll hold them off for as long as I can. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Hermione looked uncertain. “But what if it’s – You-Know-Who?”

They had discussed the possibility – perhaps not Voldemort coming himself, but Snape getting it for him, after they learned he had been one of the Dark Lord’s followers before his downfall.

“I got lucky once,” was Harry’s only reply, “Maybe I will again.”

She hugged him fiercely, an embrace he returned, before they both drank their bottles and passed through the fire.

* * *

The first thing Harry saw when his vision cleared was the Mirror of Erised, nearly glowing in a beam of magical sunlight.

Then he saw the other occupant of the room, right as he finished circling the Mirror and came back to stand in front of it, examining it closely.

It was Quirrell.

“Ah,” was all Harry could say.

“Surprised to see me, Potter?” the professor asked without the slightest hint of a stutter.

“A little,” Harry admitted, “Professor Snape seemed more the type.”

A sardonic smile pulled at Quirrell’s lips. “He does, doesn’t he? Swooping around like a great bat all the time – next to him, who would suspect p-poor s-s-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?”

“Then you let the troll in, didn’t you?” It wasn’t a huge leap to make.

Another smile, this one more genuinely pleased. “Indeed I did,” he said proudly, “I have a certain gift with them – you must have seen what I did to the one in the chamber back there? But while everyone else was running around looking for it, ‘Suspicious Severus’ went straight to the third floor to head me off. But not only did my troll fail to beat you to death, that dog didn’t even manage to bite Snape’s leg off properly.

“No matter. Once I get the Stone out of this accursed mirror, I’ll put an end to you myself.” He snapped his fingers.

The first volley of ropes Harry managed to dodge by a hair’s breadth, and the second, but the third tripped and bound him while he was still reeling. “Impressive reflexes,” said Quirrell, “If things had been different, you could have been a great credit to the wizarding world. Now, wait quietly, Potter. I _must_ figure out this mirror!”

The man stood in from of the mirror again, eyeing whatever he saw reflected in it. “I see the Stone…” he mumbled to himself, still loud enough for Harry to hear, “I’m presenting it to my master… But where _is it?_ ”

“Your master?” Harry repeated, half-expecting the answer.

“Oh yes,” Quirrell nearly sighed, “You encountered him once before, when you were just a year old.”

“Voldemort.”

“Correct again, Mr Potter. You’re a credit to our House.”

“How did _you_ meet him?”

“I traveled the world, not too long ago, a foolish young man full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil.” Quirrell ran a hand over the frame of the Mirror. “Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was. There is no good or evil – only power, and those too weak to seek it… Since then I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me, and he does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased, and punished me. Then he decided he would have to keep a much closer watch on me…”

His voice trailed away as he frowned at the glass. “I don’t understand. Is the Stone _inside_ the mirror? Should I break it? What does this mirror _do_? How does it _work_? Help me, Master!”

Harry understood Quirrell’s words right before a whispery voice answered, seeming to come from the man himself. “Use the boy…”

The older wizard rounded on him. “Yes – come here, Potter.”

Another snap of his fingers, and the ropes fell away. Harry staggered to his feet, then limped in front of the Mirror, Quirrell too close for comfort.

At first, he saw only himself – and _only_ himself, pale and scared but still determined, lit by the magical sunbeam with all else in darkness. Then his older self stepped out of the shadows and squeezed his shoulders with both hands, then reached into one of his sleeves. He pulled out a gleaming blood-red stone, and smirked, and slid it into his younger counterpart’s pocket. As the older him did so, Harry felt the Stone drop into his real pocket.

He’d done it. He had the Stone. Now came the harder part.

“What do you see?” Quirrell hissed. He was on the wrong side of Harry to notice the sudden stretch of his pocket.

“I see- my older self, I presume. An older version of me, surrounded by books I’ve written. I’m researching another, together with my family.”

The older wizard scowled and shoved him aside, retaking the spot in front of the mirror, nearly growling. If looks could kill, the mirror would have been ground to dust.

_“He lies…”_

Quirrell whirled on him again and opened his mouth to shout when the voice spoke again.

“Let me speak to him, face-to-face…”

“Master, you are not strong enough!”

“I have strength enough for this…”

Harry took a step back as Quirrell reached up and began unwrapping his turban, the purple fabric falling carelessly away to pool on the floor. When his head was bare, the man turned around.

Where there should have been a back to Quirrell’s head, instead there was a face, chalk-white and red-eyed, taking him in as he took it in.

Harry just blinked. “Oh,” he said at last, straightening out of his defensive stance, “Is that all?”

“You are not afraid, Harry Potter?” Voldemort whispered.

“I’ve seen High Wendigo on the hunt, and _been hunted by them_ , for play,” Harry replied bluntly, “Compared to that, you’re _not_ scary. Right now, at least.”

Quirrell gasped, but they both ignored him. What passed for Voldemort’s eyebrows went up. “ _You_. The so-called Savior of the Light, the Boy Who Lived. Have encountered creatures as _dark_ as High Wendigo?”

“I have.” Harry folded his arms across his chest. “It looks like there’s a lot we don’t know about each other. Like why you killed my parents, and tried to kill me.”

Voldemort examined him with fresh eyes. Then he said, “ _You_ were my target. Your parents refused to step aside.”

“ _Me?_ How was a _baby_ a threat to _you_?”

“There was a prophecy given, which spoke of a child who would be my downfall. ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have twice defied Him, born as the seventh month dies…’ But that was all my spy overheard before being discovered. I decided that _you_ were that one, and sought to eliminate the threat.”

“And it backfired on you.”

“Indeed.”

“Is there a way to hear the full prophecy?”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Dumbledore never told it to you?”

“I didn’t even know who he was until I got my Letter, never saw him ‘til I came to Hogwarts.”

“So it _is_ true, then. He sent you to be raised by Muggles.”

“Yep. They died when I was six. Animal attack.”

A slow smile curled Voldemort’s thin lips. “And by ‘animal,’ you mean ‘High Wendigo,’ don’t you.”

“Maybe.” Harry shifted on his feet. “I want to know what’s going on just as much as you do, so I’d like to propose a ceasefire. At least until we learn what the prophecy says in its entirety and decide what to do about it.”

“And what’s to stop me from simply killing you now?”

“The fact that neither of us knows what the prophecy says and as the ‘Boy Who Lived’ I’m much more likely to get a hold of it? Or the fact that whatever happened when I was one could happen again if you try? There’s too much neither of us know.”

Then the decision was made for them – pounding footsteps in the rooms beyond. Quirrell lifted a hand, and they door they all had come through slammed shut and sealed itself. “I’m sorry, Master,” he gasped, “That’s the best I can do!”

“It will be enough,” said the Dark Lord, “Very well, Mr Potter, I accept your terms, and agree to the ceasefire. But no matter what, I expect you to contact me the _instant_ you know the full prophecy.”

“You have my word, for whatever it may be worth.”

The banging on the door intensified. “Do not look Dumbledore in the eyes!” Voldemort commanded, “He will be able to read your mind, and know all we have spoken of!”

“Got it!”

The door splintered, and spells flew. Harry lunged out of the way as Quirrell whipped around and fought back. He was good, but not good enough to overcome the odds against him. Several spells struck him at once, and he screamed and fell, the spells interacting with each other and turning him to stone.

His body shattered when it hit the ground, and what looked like a cloud of fog escaped from his remains. It darted through Harry as it- as Voldemort escaped, sending both agony and bliss rocketing through them both. He staggered and fell back, darkness already descending.

* * *

Harry waited until he was fully conscious before he opened his eyes. He was in the hospital wing, with what looked like half a candy store scattered on tables around his bed.

“Good afternoon, Harry.”

The headmaster was sitting in a chair next to his bed, smiling benignly. Remembering Voldemort’s warning, he focused on the man’s forehead as he gasped, “Headmaster! The Stone- Quirrell, he-”

“Calm yourself, Harry,” said the wizard, “Quirrell does not have the Stone.”

That made him relax, if only marginally. “Then who does? What happened?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I was talking to Quirrell, then the door burst open behind me. I tried to dodge, then…” He shook his head, then frowned at all the candy.

“What happened down in the dungeons is a complete secret, so naturally the whole school knows. Friends and admirers have sent tokens of their appreciation, although I believe Mr Weasley’s elder brothers Fred and George were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat.”

Harry snorted at that, which made Dumbledore smile. “I imagine that was the reaction they were hoping for. Madame Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Almost three days. Your friends will be most relieved you have come round; all of them were very worried when you were brought in.”

“It’ll be good to see them, too. But sir, Quirrell? The Stone?”

“Not to be distracted, I see. Very well. Professor Quirrell was not able to get the Stone, nor even lay hands on it. You delayed him admirably, long enough for myself and the other staff to arrive and engage him.”

“I told Hermione to send Hedwig. She got there in time?”

“We must have passed like ships in the night. No sooner had I reached London than it became apparent I should never have left the castle.”

“And Professor Quirrell? The Stone?”

“Unfortunately, Professor Quirrell did not survive.” Dumbledore shook his head sadly. “A rather nasty combination of curses and hexes- well, the less said about it, the better. As for the Stone, it has been destroyed.”

“ _De_ \- but what about Nicolas Flamel?!”

“Oh, so you know about Nicolas?” the man beamed, “You did do the thing properly, didn’t you? Well, after the incident, Nicolas and I had a little chat – just a few hours ago, as a matter of fact. We agreed it was for the best.”

“But he and his wife will die, won’t they?”

“They have enough Elixir to set their affairs in order, but in the end, yes. To one as young as you, I’m sure it seems unbelievable, but to Nicolas and Perenelle, it’s really like going to bed after a very, _very_ long day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all – the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them.”

Alarms went off in Harry’s mind at the man’s words. ‘Did he – He couldn’t possibly have _staged_ this entire thing to teach me a lesson, could he?’

Harry didn’t dare ask, but with how cagey Dumbledore got when asked why Voldemort tried to kill him, he knew he couldn’t set the suspicion aside. Nor did he know enough about “sacrificial protection” to refute the man’s words regarding his mother’s sacrifice, but – but how many mothers sacrificed themselves to protect their children during the last war? How many of them stood in the way of the Death Eaters, fought to protect their families? Why had only _he_ survived with such protection?

He said nothing about his doubts, and evaded the other man’s gaze without seeming to do so.

* * *

His friends _were_ pleased to see him awake, and hung on his every word when he related the tale of his confrontation with the Dark Lord without telling them about the deal they’d struck. He just said he kept the wizard at bay by implying that what happened when he was a baby could very easily happen again. He felt incredibly guilty about lying to them, but Draco was probably the only one he could tell the full truth to and not be judged harshly.

(He really did want to know what the prophecy said, though. Perhaps Lucius could get him into the Ministry.)

* * *

Slytherin won the House Cup by a narrow margin, even after Dumbledore awarded them all points for their clash on the third floor. While unhappy it wasn’t Gryffindor, Ron still congratulated Draco on the win, and they heckled each other into laughter.

They all sat together on the train home, Crabbe and Goyle hovering near the door to shield them from the gawkers as they talked about their summer plans. Hermione had been amazed when she heard Harry planned to catch up (and keep up) with his muggle schooling, before she vowed to do the same.

The two of them were still in the process of explaining the standard subjects to the wizards when. The train pulled into Kings Cross. When he disembarked, Harry waived for his family to wait a moment, and approached Lucius while the others ran off to their parents and Draco greeted his mother. “Can we talk privately?”

The Malfoy patriarch raised an eyebrow but let the way to a small alcove and cast several high-level privacy charms. “How can I help you, Mr Potter?”

“I encountered the Dark Lord this year.”

Mixed anxiety and relief flashed across his face before it was gone behind his pureblood mask. “Indeed?”

“Yes. If you intend to get back on his good side – if he does in fact have one – you should probably start preparing for his return. He was denied the Sorcerer’s Stone, but I have no doubt he knows other ways back to a body. It might not be as soon as either of you would like, but it _is_ inevitable.”

“I thank you for the warning,” said the older wizard, “and I will take your words under advisement.”

Both of them inclined their heads to each other, and Harry went to join his family. Lucius and Narcissa exchanged glances that said they would talk later, before they bade the others farewell.


	8. Attack of the Titans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, long time no see. Sorry I've been AWOL; been working a lot and active in other fandoms, as you can probably see. But, the good news is, I'm going to be on vacation the week of Christmas, so I'll have plenty of time to write for this story (and hopefully a lot of inspiration as well).

When he told his parents about his encounter with the Dark Lord, this time it was Will who was ready to jump down Dumbledore’s throat. Hannibal served as the rational one, reminding his husband that the official story was Quirrell had been after it, and they only had Harry’s word that Voldemort had been involved. Of course they believed him, but others would not be so quick to do so. They would have to be patient.

In other news, Gringotts had finally completed an audit of all his accounts, and found his parents’ wills in the process. A reading had been scheduled for the second week of July to give the goblins time to send out all the notices.

But that begged the question… “Do you think they put a guardian for me in their wills? Are you gonna have to fight a custody battle?”

“We might,” said Hannibal, “but we do have the blood adoption on our side. The goblins implied it would give us a leg up on anyone else who might be named, save your late relatives.”

Abigail hissed quietly at the mention of the Dursleys, as she often did. She was actually the reason they had hunted the family in the first place, even their spoiled brat of a son despite his youth. Dudley had run out into traffic, and the Dursleys had blamed her for nearly running him down instead of themselves for not keeping a closer eye on him, and been unforgivably rude in the process. The three of them had spent _weeks_ stalking the human family before finally making the kills. It was only then that they discovered Harry.

“And if you do have relatives in the wizarding world,” Hannibal continued over Abigail’s prolonged hissing, “why didn’t they step forward before now? Or during your first year? – Settle down, Abby.”

“Sorry, dad.”

* * *

Harry had a full summer that year, between his muggle schoolwork, summer work for his Hogwarts classes, and corresponding with all his friends. Even so, he found time to spend with his sister, his parents, the dogs, and the snakes in the woods, letting some of the last into the house to clean out the inevitable vermin that found their way in. Hannibal had let the snakes in over the winter, too, but he couldn’t talk to them like Harry could.

Then it was time for the will reading. Will had forbidden Hannibal from making _any_ puns, cannibalism-oriented or otherwise, on their way to Diagon Alley and Gringotts beyond, which had made both Harry and Abby nearly howl with laughter. It was going to _kill_ the eldest Wendigo, seeing openings for his own particular brand of doubletalk and not being able to take them.

They arrived at Gringotts fifteen minutes early, together with Neville and his grandmother, and they all were escorted into a private room. The adults socialized while the boys chatted about what they were doing over the summer.

Other people trickled in, including Professor Snape, much to their surprise – and his own, if his expression was anything to go by. Dumbledore wasn’t far behind, followed by a bone-tired-looking older man, who froze upon spotting Harry, looking like he’d seen a ghost.

The will reading proceeded without any major incidents, everyone accepting what they received from the deceased Potters – until they got to Harry’s custody arrangements. It was there that Lily and James explicitly stated that he was _not_ , under _any_ circumstances, to be left with Lily’s sister. Lily herself actually wrote that she would rather Harry be raised by Voldemort himself than let that happen – quite a statement from people who had opposed him so vigorously.

The will’s chain of custody was thus: his godfathers Sirius Black and Remus Lupin (the haggard man from earlier), Frank and Alice Longbottom, Severus Snape, and then any – _any ­_ – magical family, Light, Dark, Order of the Phoenix (whatever _that_ was), Death Eater; it hadn’t mattered to Lily and James as long as the family in question understood and respected the position they had taken and given their lives for. The same went for Harry himself – they didn’t care which side of the war he picked or if he even picked a side at all, as long as it was _his_ choice and he was happy with it.

(Harry would never, ever admit it, but he relaxed upon hearing those words. Some part of him had been worried what his biological parents would have thought of him, but now that part was at ease. Still, he wasn’t about to announce that he’d met and made a deal with the Dark Lord.)

* * *

Severus (“Only outside of school, Mr Potter.” “Harry.” “…Harry.”) agreed that it would be best for him to remain with the Lecters since he was busy all the time, and Lupin was a werewolf and so not a fit legal guardian in the eyes of the Ministry. He looked surprised and a little upset when Abigail took that information and nearly jumped the man, quizzing him about werewolf resources for her college roommate.

Since they were already in Diagon Alley, they decided to get all of Harry’s school supplies while they were there – leading them to stumble into the middle of a very tense stand-off between the Malfoys and the Weasleys. Fortunately, their arrival seemed to diffuse some of the tension, letting the children escape into the crowd.

The size of the crowd was unusual but explained by a sign near the door of Flourish and Blots that some author or another was going to be signing copies of his autobiography. Apparently he was also the one who wrote all the books for their defense classes that year, but Harry only needed to glance through them to know that he would be self-teaching this year. Unless their teacher was using this _Gilderoy Lockhart_ as an example of  frauds, there was no way they could learn anything. The books were well-crafted fiction, he’d give them that, but they were still fiction; with just a cursory glance through a few, he was able to find more than a few points that didn’t match up with something the author said elsewhere.

He was spotted on his way back to his parents (Will having somehow gotten the Weasley and Malfoy patriarchs to commiserate over the incompetence of another Ministry department). Gilderoy Lockhart himself roped Harry into an impromptu photoshoot and announce that _he_ would be teaching classes for DADA that year.

Hrry used the ruckus that caused to slip the man’s grasp and find his parents and friends – yet as he tracked his family’s dark and bloody presence through the horde, he would have sworn he felt a familiar brush of magic somewhere amidst all the people.

Voldemort’s magic.

* * *

“So,” Will said quietly, after they all returned home, “What should we do about the will?”

“I spoke to Lucius while all of _that_ was happening,” Hannibal hummed, flipping slowly through his recipes, “He knows people who know people, of course. He gave me the contact information for a wizarding lawyer, and informed me that the wills should have been opened by Harry’s magical guardian as soon as possible after his parents’ deaths to see if there were instructions as to who was to take over the guardianship.”

The High Wendigos exchanged glances, eyes turning pale. “He had to have known,” Will said, “what they wanted. He didn’t look surprised, just a little resigned.”

Hannibal let out a hum edged with a growl. “And I can’t imagine that his motivations were _entirely_ altruistic. He had a lot to gain if Harry grew up in an abusive household. He would naturally latch on to the first people who showed him kindness – as he did with us. If we hadn’t found him…”

“He would have controlled the narrative, even indirectly. Purebloods – or at least quote-unquote ‘dark’ purebloods – are very insular and wouldn’t approach the way ‘light’ families would.” Will scowled off into space, a ripple of black passing over his skin for a second. “Harry would most likely have been disinclined to make friends outside of that, not wanting to lose the friends he’d already made.

“But that’s not all of it. I can read that from him; he genuinely thought that putting Harry with the Dursleys was the best thing for him, that he was protecting him somehow. What I don’t know is how and why.”

* * *

Harry met up with all his friends on the Hogwarts express, all of them managing to fit into a single compartment with their trunks and animals (somehow). Draco and Hermione were discussing how magical families learned things like reading, writing, and basic maths. Ron was regaling Crabbe and Goyle with the tale of some adventure or another that Fred and George had dragged him into. Neville seemed to be evenly split between both conversations, same as Harry, commenting where appropriate.

But Draco and Hermione’s conversation interested Harry more. He remembered what he had seen in the Mirror of Erised, of the books he might write to bridge the gap between the pureblood and muggleborn communities, to teach each about the other. He decided then that that was absolutely something he was going to do – that was something he wanted, a way to make a new name for himself (and possibly improve the magical world at the same time).

He would need to talk to his parents about what kind of background he would need. Science and history, at least. He’d also need to talk to a lot of pureblood families to learn about their traditions, perhaps in the guise of trying to connect with and understand his own. Something to consider.

Then he felt it again, the barest brush of Voldemort’s presence somewhere nearby. He did his best not to react in front of his friends, but he did stick his head out into the hall as if he was looking for the trolley witch. There was no sign of anyone who could have been the Dark Lord, but his presence had grown stronger than when last he felt it and seemed to be moving with the train, somewhere on it. It was a shame he couldn’t get more specific than ‘nearby’ for a direction; he would have liked to know the other’s opinion of this ‘Gilderoy Lockhart.’

* * *

Harry’s own already-low opinion of the man plummeted towards ‘abysmal’ after just one lesson. Really? _Really?_ The man had trouble with _pixies_? And _Peskipiksi pesternomi_? Was that even a real spell? He wound up spending nearly six inches of parchment complaining about him to his family in their weekly letter, and asking if they couldn’t _invite him to dinner_ at some unspecified future date – the man had implied that Harry had _wanted_ his fame, _and_ was trying to use it for his own gain! The young Ravenclaw had almost snapped that he hadn’t asked for the Dark Lord to murder his biological parents, but he held his tongue and lay in wait.

But it wasn’t just the first class that was a joke – it was _all of them_ , to the point where Harry and Hermione (who had eventually come around) looked up what they were supposed to be learning and made their own curriculum. They followed it religiously, and it wound up propagating outward to the rest of their group, then most of their year. Some members of other years were inspired to do the same, especially the fifth and seventh years. With their OWLs and NEWTs on the horizon, none of them could afford to fall behind because of an incompetent teacher.

He actually mentioned that in a letter to his parents at a later date – ‘At least I know he’s not involved with the Dark Lord – even Voldemort must demand a certain level of competence and skill from his followers.’

But thinking of that brought his mind back to the man himself. Harry had continued sensing his presence intermittently since the start of term, but there had been no contact made. Which Harry found very odd; didn’t he want to know if Harry had discovered anything over the summer? (He hadn’t, not really, though he had owled Lucius Malfoy to see if the Ministry had an archive of past prophecies, or if it was just one and done and hope someone heard it. The Malfoy patriarch had not yet responded.)

But then Halloween rolled around.

* * *

Draco was in the process of explaining an ancient Samhain – Halloween – ritual that wizarding families used to do, a kind of blood ritual that put the land to sleep for the winter but also steeped it in power for the next growing season. Since it involved blood, it was illegal to perform now, of course, but even Ron was listening to the story Draco spun, riveted. Harry was, too, until he became aware of a voice, a _hissing_ coming from inside the walls.

_“Kill… need to kill… been so hungry for so long…”_

“Harry?”

Harry blinked, and found that he had stopped in the middle of the hall on the first floor, not too far from the stairs down to the entrance hall. “What’s the matter, Harry?” Hermione asked, speaking for all of them.

“I don’t think… we should be out in the open…” he murmured, reaching up to touch one of his ears. He pushed energy into his auditory canal and listened, trying to strip away familiar sounds and zero in on what didn’t belong – until he encountered a very _odd_ heartbeat not too far away, strangely _stiff_ , like the heart was having to fight hard to pump blood.

He dropped his hand and pulled out his wand, advancing slowly, carefully down the hall, feeling like when he was being play-hunted by the Wendigos. His friends did the same, sticking close – they rounded the corner –

_THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE._

Below the glistening letters, Mrs Norris, Argus Filch’s beloved cat, hung by her tail from a wall sconce, her stiff form reflected in the pools of water on the floor.

“We need a teacher,” Harry managed, trying to take in as much detail as he could, trying to reconstruct what had happened the way Will was teaching him, but he didn’t know enough – this was no mundane kill, or even a kill at all. Mrs Norris was still alive, barely. “We need a teacher – or the headmaster.”

Neville nodded and took off at a sprint, wand still in hand. Harry looked down at the puddles of water on the floor, trying to see if there was anything resembling footprints left behind if someone had walked through them. He found them all right, too many, but he couldn’t even begin to estimate how long they’d been there or even the right time frame for the attack; most of the school walked through that hall on their way to lunch and dinner.

Footsteps. Neville came jogging around the corner with Dumbledore and half the staff in tow, including Filch – and Lockhart.

Harry stepped back to let the headmaster pass, trying not to scowl at the defense professor, and watched as Dumbledore examined the cat briefly, then carefully detached her from the sconce. “All of you, come with me.”

They went to Lockhart’s office, _generously_ offered by the man himself, since it was the closest. Some of the teachers stayed behind to divert the students away from the hall, or at least keep them moving.

The professor’s office was full of paintings of himself, some of them dodging out of sight in nightclothes and rollers. The real one hovered while Dumbledore examined the cat, the students gathered close to one another but with a clear view of the desk. At last, Dumbledore straightened and interrupted Lockhart’s blathering, saying, “She’s not dead, Argus.”

The conversation that followed went mostly over the students’ heads, but Harry learned that Mrs Norris’s state was called ‘petrifaction,’ and only advanced dark magic could put someone in such a state. But the biggest surprise of the night was yet to come; when Filch accused Harry of petrifying his cat, _Snape_ spoke up in his defense. “I saw all of them at the feast, Argus,” said the potions’ master, “They sat together at the Slytherin table, and while they did leave early, they weren’t gone long enough to petrify your cat. Even for the Dark Lord, it would not be an easy thing.”

Harry blinked at the man standing in a shadowed corner. Their odd ceasefire had not been greatly affected by the will reading and continued on into the new school year, along with Snape’s odd, strangely sad looks whenever he saw him together with his friends. Still, he hadn’t expected the professor to speak up on his behalf. Perhaps the fact that Draco was included in the group was what gave him the final push.

Soon after, they were all sent off to bed. Harry didn’t even get a chance to tell his friends about the voice (a serpent?) in the walls before he entered the Ravenclaw dormitories and climbed into bed.


	9. Only the Good Die Young

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably going to be my last post before going on vacation, so expect another post maybe around New Years?

As far as Harry knew, none of his friends said anything to anyone else about what had happened, but even so, the whole school knew by morning. Filch himself kept the event fresh in everyone’s minds for several days after by haunting the scene of the crime and lunging out of secret passageways, accusing students who seemed “too happy” of being the perpetrators. Ron mentioned in passing that his sister Ginny, a first year, had been on the receiving end of one such accusation and burst into tears.

There was a lot more activity in the library now, which much of their group disliked for one reason or another, mostly because the amount of noise meant they could no longer hear each other when they spoke at a volume deemed _acceptable_ by the librarian. Harry took to delivering Madam Pince-level glares at anyone within range, green eyes flashing. Still, it was unavoidable that they would overhear…

Hogwarts was founded some time before 1000 AD by Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. They built the castle that housed the school and brought in students who showed signs of magic in order to teach them how to use their gifts. Yet a rift soon developed between Slytherin and the others, over which students should be taught; Slytherin felt that their arts should be restricted to all- or mostly-magical families, whereas the others argued that anyone with magical talent should be welcomed and educated.

In the end, Slytherin left Hogwarts, but not before building the Chamber of Secrets somewhere in the school and putting a monster inside – a monster only his Heir could control and use to purge the school of those “unworthy” to study magic.

Or so the rumors said.

Harry raised an eyebrow as his friends debated what kind of “monster” Slytherin could have left, going through increasingly ridiculous possibilities until he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “It should be obvious.”

“What?”

“Slytherin and his descendants were all able to talk to snakes, right? I’ve been reading up, and it’s not a common ability. His monster has to be some kind of snake, something only he and his Heirs could speak to and control.”

Everyone blinked, then realized he was right. “How did you learn that?” Hermione asked, leaning in eagerly.

“I was looking up information about witches and wizards who could talk to animals without casting spells or brewing potions or the like, and Slytherin came up. Him and Herpo the Foul and – Voldemort.” He stumbled over the name for a second; he had been about to say ‘the Dark Lord.’

That made them all blanch, all except Draco. “ _Don’t say his name,_ ” Ron hissed.

“It’s a _name_ , Ron,” Harry said, rolling his eyes again, “It’s not like saying ‘Voldemort is going to conjure him up any more than saying ‘oak tree’ will make our table turn into one.”

And of course, right as he finished speaking he sensed Voldemort’s presence. Just a brief blip, barely long enough to register, but it was enough. Harry frowned briefly, then forged on, figuring now was as good a time as any, “I wanted to know more about the ability to talk to animals, anyway, if it was common, the usual animals talked to, etcetera.”

Draco snorted. “‘Common?’” he repeated, “Try ‘the number of people _in history_ able to speak to animals without outside help couldn’t fill Diagon Alley.’ Why, can you?”

Harry nodded. “Snakes. But I can’t for the life of me figure out where it came from – my family’s not related to _any_ of the founders, much less Slytherins. My mom was muggleborn, and most of the Potters were Gryffindors with the odd Ravenclaw and one – _one_ – Slytherin. There’s no history of Parseltongue in the family genealogies I’ve had time to look through. I just don’t understand where it could have come from.”

“How long have you had it?” Hermione asked.

“As long as I can remember. I used to talk to garden snakes back when my aunt and uncle were still alive, and now my parents’ house backs up to a small wood. Some snakes live there, and I let them into the house to eat the mice and rats. Some of them are actually quite sweet and bring me little things they think I might find interesting. – But that’s not the point.” He flapped a hand. “I heard a snake – or at least something I can understand with Parseltongue – inside the walls not too long before we came upon Mrs Norris.”

“Inside the _walls_?” Neville repeated incredulously, eyebrows nearly climbing into his hairline.

“I know, right? But there was no one but us in the hall, and nothing invisible as far as I could tell, so that was the only conclusion I could draw.”

Of course, that started Ron and Draco arguing about if ghost snakes were a thing that existed, much to Harry’s mixed amusement and exasperation. They were still arguing about it when they all broke to go to class, making the young Potter heir shake his head. “Those two,” he sighed to Neville as they walked down to the greenhouses, “Sometimes they’re mortal enemies, sometimes they’re thick as thieves.”

“And all on a schedule only they seem to know,” Neville added, making Harry snort.

* * *

That weekend, they all returned to the scene of the crime to see if there were any clues left behind from their “ghost snake.” They found scorch marks and spiders fleeing the castle like it was going out of style, but got nothing from a ghost named Moaning Myrtle who lived in the bathroom practically right next door. None of them felt any real urgency to continue pursuing the possibilities-

Until a student was attacked. Colin Creevey, a first-year Gryffindor. Harry pulled out the invisibility cloak and _carefully_ sneaked into the hospital wing to see him. He, too, had been petrified, and his hands were frozen up in front of his face like he had been holding something – the wreckage of a camera, now on his bedside table.

Draco wrote his father the very next day, asking for anything he could tell them about the Chamber and the snake-creature within; there were more than four dozen different creatures it could have been, though none of them seemed to petrify people the way this one did. Gorgons turned people to stone, but that was the closest they could find.

Not too long after, a Dueling Club started up with the intention of teaching the students how to protect themselves in combat. And, of course, it was Lockhart who started it, assisted by Professor Snape, who looked even more sour than usual. Their mock-duel was over in a single spell, the potions master downing the other wizard with the Disarming Charm. Of course, that was the only spell the demonstrated before breaking everyone up into pairs to practice their skills.

Harry wound up getting paired with an older Slytherin, one who didn’t like him very much if her glare and sneer were anything to go by. When Lockhart gave the signal to begin, she proved it, snarling, “ _Serpensortia!”_ and launching an adder at his face. He shot a Disarming Charm back, only to have the older student shout, “ _Protego!”_ and shield herself from it. While she was distracted, he flicked a nonverbal levitation charm at her feet, yanking them out from under her.

Then he called to the adder, **“Hey, snake! I don’t know your name, but you need to come over here or you’re gonna get hurt!”**

 **“Speaker…”** the adder hissed and slithered over to him, letting him scoop it up and tuck it into the sleeve of his robes. It coiled around his arm and held tight, though not tight enough to cut off circulation.

The Slytherin snarled at him from the ground and launched two more spells at him. He cried, “ _Protego!_ ”, hoping that the apparent shield charm would block-

It did, although the other spells sent him skidding back a bit. He kept his feet, however, and was about to return fire when Snape called the match.

The adder made it the rest of the way up his arm and over his shoulder to peek out from the collar of his robes, tongue flickering. **“Who are these two-leggers, Speaker?”** it asked, **“Why have they gathered in such numbers? Can I eat them?”**

 **“The older ones are teaching us to defend ourselves,”** Harry answered quietly, careful not to make any gestures that could be construed as threatening – or any gestures at all. **“We aren’t born knowing how to fight – we have to learn.”**

 **“How strange,”** the serpent hissed.

“Mr Potter.”

Harry looked up. Snape had his wand out but lowered, and was eyeing the adder. “I’m going to have to send that snake back, Mr Potter. I’m afraid it cannot stay.”

The Ravenclaw told the serpent and laughed at its response. “He says he hopes it’s a better trip than the one that brought him here.”

That earned the _tiniest_ hint of a smile from the potions master, and a ripple of snickers from the students listening in. The adder slithered out from his robes and down into his hands, and vanished with a flick of the professor’s wand. “Have you always been able to talk to snakes?” the man asked.

Control the narrative, Harry. “For as long as I can remember, but no idea where it came from – neither of my parents are related to any of the founders as far as I can tell, and almost all the Potters were _Gryffindors_. If we were related to anyone, it would probably be him.” He pitched his voice carefully, loud enough for others to hear but not enough to seem intentional.

* * *

It was all over the school by the next day. Most people seemed to believe him – some even calling him “Gryffindor’s Heir” – which also gave Zacharias Smith five minutes of fame as the legitimate “Heir of Hufflepuff.” Still, there were whispers in corners that since his father had been a pureblood, he had to be related in some way to all the other pureblood families, including Slytherin.

Harry ignored them for the most part, except where they were unavoidably loud or up-front about it. Quite _rude_ … but inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. He ignored it-

Until Justin Finch-Fletchley turned up petrified, along with a _ghost_ , “Nearly-Headless Nick” of Gryffindor. Finch-Fletchley may have been one of the students badmouthing him, but Harry certainly hadn’t set Slytherin’s monster on him. He did get sent to the headmaster, though, but had nothing to add that wasn’t already circulating through the rumor mill.

(He barely remembered to avoid the headmaster’s gaze, but he still remembered.)

On his way out of the office, he bumped into the groundskeeper, who had a dead rooster swinging from one massive fist. He inclined his head to the man, who looked tickled pink at being acknowledged, and continued on his way, meeting up with his friends on their way down for dinner.

They heard Filch shouting from a long way off. The man went storming past them, snarling about “adding to his workload” and “flooding the halls for the past fifty years” and “telling the headmaster we need an exorcist!”

They soon saw what he had been ranting about – the first floor corridor was flooded again, same as it had been the night Mrs Norris was attacked. The letters gleamed bright as ever on the wall in the light of the torches, but even the crackling of the fire couldn’t cover up the sound of Myrtle sobbing harder than usual in her bathroom.

Harry frowned and focused – and felt Voldemort’s presence. It was close, intense- closer than it had ever been. And there was really only one place…

He pushed open the door to the girls’ bathroom and called, “Myrtle? What’s the matter?”

There was a wet sniffle from one of the stalls. “Who is it? Come to throw another book at me?”

“It’s Harry Potter; we met on Halloween.” He waded over to her stall and nudged the door open. “Why would I throw a book at you?”

“Don’t ask _me_ ,” the ghost snapped, emerging from the toilet in yet another wave of water, “Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it’s funny to throw a book at me!”

“Well _I_ don’t think it’s funny,” said Harry, “Do you want me to take it? Where did it go?”

“By all means! It’s over there, it got washed out.” She pointed.

Under the central sink was a thin black book sitting in about an inch of water. Harry picked it up – and froze for an instant, noticeable only to those who knew him _very_ well.

The book _radiated_ Voldemort’s presence for those who knew how to look, but it felt… _odd_ , in a way Harry couldn’t yet explain.

“Take care, Myrtle,” he called back to her, “I’ll see if I can find who this belongs to and throw it at their head for you.”

He barely heard her response, already flipping through the pages. The book – the journal – was soaked with water and power, with T M Riddle in faded gold lettering on the back.

He tucked it away during dinner, not wanting his friends to be suspicious when really all he wanted to do was study and poke and prod the book. What had the Dark Lord done, to seal himself inside a book? Or _get_ sealed in one?

After everything wrapped up for the evening, Harry climbed into bed and drew his hangings around, casting a silencing charm just in case. Then he examined the book in his hands, turning it in all directions and peering as closely as he could at it before finally cracking it open. Every page was labeled with the “week of”, but there was absolutely _nothing_ in it, not even blurred ink from its soaking.

Harry frowned, and reached for ink and a quill.

_Voldemort?_

Nothing.

_I know it’s you. I can feel your presence. How did you get inside a book? Are you possessing it somehow, like with Quirrell?_

Then, in a different hand, _Who is this?_

Harry blinked, because _what_. Had Voldemort lost all his memories when he left Quirrell? _This is Harry Potter. Don’t you remember?_

_I’m afraid not. This is just a memory of me at sixteen, locked inside a diary. I haven’t interacted with my current self in a long time._

_Oh, I’m sorry._

_It’s all right, you didn’t know. But – you’ve encountered my current self?_

_Last year, yes. You… weren’t looking to good. Living in the back of a professor’s head, no body of your own._

_I see. Is there anything else?_

_Apparently there was a prophecy made about us, that said I was to be your downfall. I don’t see how, seeing as I wasn’t even born when it was made, but_ something _happened the night you came for me, and you lost your body._

How???

 _I don’t know. Dumbledore says it was because my mother sacrificed herself to protect me, but that sounds like a line to me. How many mothers gave their lives to protect their families during the war? How many sacrificed themselves so that their children might live? I’ve never heard of this ‘sacrificial protection’ saving anyone before. But there’s more,_ Harry went on, _Neither you nor I know the full prophecy, so in the interest of neither of us experiencing a repeat of what happened that night, we have a ceasefire. At least until we learn the full text and decide what to do about it._

 _It must have been delivered in full to_ someone _. The Ministry should have a copy of their memory in the Hall of Prophecy, part of the Department of Mysteries. And what war are you referring to?_

_The last wizarding war. Your current self started it, for reasons I don’t know._

_Then what_ do _you – this is tedious. Let me…_

There was a jerk, and Harry found himself falling forward _into_ the diary, which opened up to welcome him. It was like falling into a warm bath on a cold winter’s day, his whole body relaxing into the magic that surrounded him. When he landed, he was in what must have been the Slytherin Common Room, circa 1940. There was only one other occupant, who could only be Voldemort at sixteen, still young and handsome with dark hair and pale eyes.

“Come here,” said Voldemort, gesturing him over, “I am not as powerful or skilled as my current self, but I still can…” Harry walked over to stand in front of him and, when the Dark Lord tilted his head up, looked into his eyes.

In his mind’s eye, the events of his life started playing – the blurred memories of infancy, the flash of green light that took his mother (“No, not Harry! Please!”), the – flight? – that brought him to the Dursleys.

The Dursleys. Voldemort _hissed_ profanities in Parseltongue when he saw the things they had done to him, forcing Harry to clean before he even understood dirtiness, cook when he could barely reach the stove. Harry Hunting. The smacks and hits when he failed or fumbled or got higher grades than Dudley, or whenever anything _unnatural_ happened.

Their deaths, and the appearance of his new family. His much-better life with them, living and growing and learning in peace, wandering unafraid as the child of High Wendigos.

Then, The Letter. The goblins, the adoption, the Malfoys, the Sorting, his first year.

The _other_ Voldemort. The deal they struck. His warning to Lucius, the events of the summer, and his second year to date.

This Voldemort withdrew, frowning. “Even accounting for the inevitable bias of the ‘light,’ this is _not_ what I had in mind,” he muttered, more to himself than Harry, “Such open violence – the deaths of so many magical families – what _happened_? Where is our Slytherin cunning? Where are all of our so carefully laid plans?”

Harry shrugged. “There’s too much I don’t know to be able to answer that. Although… are you – _stronger_ , than he is?”

Because that was it. That was what was odd. Since he – or his perception – was “inside” the diary, he could feel Voldemort all around him. His presence felt more powerful, concentrated – more _intense_ – than the one that had passed through him at the end of last year. Harry was pretty sure he was correct in that guess, but he didn’t understand how a “memory” of Voldemort was stronger than the real thing.

From the look on the teen’s face, he didn’t either

Until he did.

“No,” he murmured to himself, “That can’t be it. That _can’t_ be it! There has to be some other explanation-!” But his mind seemed to be caught on whatever he’d thought of, because his frown deepened until  his whole body was frowning. “Harry, I need you to check something for me so I can confirm a theory. Do you have a way of getting to the seventh floor unseen? Do you know the Disillusionment Charm?”

“I have an invisibility cloak.” The teen had skimmed over that part, marking it as sentimental and unimportant.

“Good, good!” Voldemort taught him a spell to muffle the sounds of his feet, then continued, “I need you to go to the seventh floor, the left-hand corridor. Find the tapestry of the wizard trying to teach trolls ballet. On the opposite side of the hall is a stretch of blank wall; walk past it three times, thinking, ‘I need the Room of Hidden Things,’ and a door will appear. Go in, and look for my presence. My current self should have concealed another – _memory_ , there. I need to check…”

“Seventh floor, left side, ballet trolls, Room of Hidden Things. Got it.” Harry nodded.

The diary spat him back out, and he briefly missed being inside it before digging for his cloak. He cast the muffling spell the Dark Lord taught him, then pulled the cloak on.

With the diary tucked under his arm, wand in hand, and a pen in his pocket, he slipped out of the dormitory and headed up the stairs to the seventh floor, moving slowly and carefully to avoid teachers and prefects. He found the tapestry where Voldemort said it would be, walked in front of the blank wall – and a door appeared, opening into the _messiest_ room he had ever seen, and he had lived with Dudley. Piles and piles and _piles_ of  junk – broken desks, chairs, and other furniture; ripped books; old clothing; cauldrons with potion caked on; bent telescopes; a scorched set of runes the size of Galleons; the list went on and on and _on_.

And somewhere in the disaster, Harry sensed the Dark Lord’s presence. He scrawled as much in the diary – _I feel you; give me a minute_ – and started wading through all the _stuff_ , briefly grateful that tomorrow was Saturday. It felt like it took hours, but at last Harry’s hand closed on some kind of tiara. A jolt went up his spine, same as with the diary, and he grinned.

_I’ve got it!_

_What is it? What does it look like?_

_Some kind of tiara._ Then he read the inscription on it. _Is this Ravenclaw’s diadem??_

_So we did find it, then. I wondered if we would. Touch it to the diary._

Harry did so, but he already knew. The “memory” (which, he called bullshit on that _so hard_ ) in the diadem was weaker than the one in the diary. The current Voldemort was weaker still.

A ripple passed over both objects, and the diadem whistled a little, then settled.

_I did not anticipate this._

_Is there anything else you want me to grab/think I should grab, or can I head back?_

_No, you can go. …Thank you._

_You’re very welcome._


	10. Watchman's Ease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I LIED. THIS is (probably) going to be the last chapter before I leave on my trip. (I have the next one all written up, but it's a race against time to get it typed up since it's MUCH longer. It MIGHT be up tomorrow night. MIGHT.)
> 
> Nothing much happens here, although some progress is made on the prophecy front.

Harry concealed diary and diadem in a secret compartment in his trunk and cast as many protective enchantments as he knew on it – which wasn’t a lot, but barring someone completely upending his trunk and smashing it to pieces, he hoped it would be enough.

Once he finished his homework, he researched some more protective spells and added them after dinner, but not before taking out the diary.

_Have you made a decision?_

_What makes you assume there is one to make?_

_If I was in your position, I would have to decide – stay in the diary and leave everything as it lies, or rejoin with my current self and hope it fixed whatever was making them weaker than me. Assuming it’s possible to rejoin, of course._

_…I don’t know if it’s possible. I never researched how – never thought I would need to. The other doesn’t know either._

_You can talk to the diadem?_

_Yes. He’s as alarmed as I am about our weakening – he hadn’t really noticed until I brought it to his attention._

_So your current self probably doesn’t know, then._

_A safe assumption to make._

Harry couldn’t help but imagine the young Voldemort sitting in the Slytherin common room from the 1940’s, colors dim and faded except for him, biting his thumbnail as he weighed his options. It was a strikingly human image, one that didn’t really fit the man, the myth, the legend that was the Dark Lord Voldemort – but this version of him wasn’t yet that man, that terror. This one was still a (admittedly _brilliant_ ) student of Hogwarts…

…And the Heir of Slytherin.

Harry’s eyes narrowed.

_What did Slytherin put in the Chamber of Secrets?_

_I’m sorry?_

_You’re the Heir of Slytherin, the one that’s been causing a bit of a stir here. What did Slytherin put in his Chamber? He was a Parselmouth, so I figured it has to be some kind of snake, or a relative of one._

_…You’re a credit to your House, Mr Potter. It’s a basilisk._

“Oh,” Harry sighed, remembering an artist’s rendition he’d seen while researching. It had been an almost art-nouveau-style painting of a male and female basilisk twined around each other, surrounded by stars, bird skulls, and black feathers.

_The petrifactions have been because no one’s looked – him? Her? – directly in the eye._

_Correct again. And her name is Ariadne._

_Not an ‘S’ name?_

_Salazar called her ‘Selene,’ but she chose Ariadne for herself._

* * *

The two “memories” spent many days debating amongst themselves, and Harry left them to it. He had a decision of his own to make – two of them, really.

Lucius had finally replied, explaining how the Ministry detected prophecies being delivered and archived them in the Hall of Prophecy. Apparently other countries had more reliable methods – and ones less prone to possible tampering – but the British Ministry collected the memories of those who heard the prophecies, rather than using _Legilimens_ masters to extract it from the prophets directly – or properly training them to know when a prophecy is coming and get to a Recording Office.

He went on to explain that since prophecies were often vague enough to have many possible targets, viewing was not possible unless the prophecy was confirmed to have been fulfilled at least once – but he also said he knew why Harry was asking, and more importantly _for whom_ he was asking, and promised to inquire.

Harry thanked him profusely and advised that if he hadn’t thought of it already, he should absolutely take advantage of people’s belief that Voldemort was gone, that the prophecy was fulfilled. And if Harry needed to be the one asking, would he mind helping him draft the request for maximum effect?

But then, decision time: did he find some way to contact the current Dark Lord, let him know that progress was being made, or leave him in the dark until he had the full prophecy in hand? But that led to another question: since the Dark Lord was (most likely) still a bodiless wraith, _was_ there a way to contact him? He had no hands – or eyes – so he couldn’t read letters, answer phones, use any ordinary means of communication. Perhaps it would be best to wait – which would also give the diary-and-diadem Voldemorts time to sort themselves out.

But that was his second, less important decision to make. What was he to do with them? Did he leave them at Hogwarts, in the Room of Hidden Things? Or did he bring them home with him? He couldn’t imagine that his parents would be thrilled about him bringing pieces of the Dark Lord home (because whatever Diary-demort said, Harry did his due diligence and knew for a _fact_ that he was bullshitting, even if he hadn’t yet called him out). But at the same time, even in the Room of Hidden Things, they would be terribly exposed. He assumed Voldemort had put protections on them to stop them from being damaged or destroyed, but that wouldn’t stop someone else from finding them and carting them off.

Harry sighed.

_Voldemort._

_Yes, Harry?_

_I’m sorry for interrupting your intrapersonal interaction, but I need to know – do you want me to put you two in the Room of Hidden Things during the Christmas holidays, or do you want to come home with me?_

_…How long do we have to decide?_

_Hogwarts Express leaves in a week._

_We’ll let you know in four days._

In the end, they decided to leave Hogwarts with him to get out from under Dumbledore’s watchful eye for a time (and both knew better than to try anything with _three_ High Wendigos so close).

_Protected by the light on one side and the dark on the other – you lead an interesting life, Mr Potter._

_Interesting is relative. I’m sure your other selves have tales of their own to tell._

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Will was the one who picked up on the Dark Lord’s presence, reading it in Harry the way he read everyone else’s secrets, but he only confronted him about it when Hannibal was off cooking dinner (Abigail wasn’t yet home – weather). He frowned sharply on seeing the diary and diadem, and examined them closely. “I can feel there’s something there when I hold them,” he said, turning the gently-whistling diadem over in his hands, “definitely more than a mere memory, but I can’t read it the way I do people.” He sighed and handed the diadem back, the whistling tapering off. “I trust you to know what you’re doing, even as young as you are, but please, be careful.”

“I will,” Harry promised.

Will told Hannibal, of course, and they spoke extensively with both artifacts before returning them, the elder wendigo reiterating his husband’s advice for caution. “I don’t think their madness is contagious, but nonetheless, be cautious. Indulge as few of your ‘Gryffindor’-like tendencies as possible where they are concerned. Slytherins are masters of dissembling, and I would hate to see harm come to you because of something they asked of you.”

Harry vowed that he would be careful.

Once again, his family was invited to the Malfoys’ Yule Ball, abut Lucius requested that Harry, at least, arrive early. They all took tea with the wizard, and he explained his plan. “The Minister will be attending again this year,” said Lucius, “I believe your request to view the prophecy will be more effective if first made to him in person. Fudge is – well, with the right amount of emotional appeal about wanting to know why your parents died and, as you said, the belief that the Dark Lord is no more, he should be amenable. It will be easier to get through him than the head of the Department of Mysteries – the request would have to cross his desk, anyway.”

“How should I bring it up? And how should I say I heard about it?”

“An element of truth, perhaps – Severus was the one who overheard the prophecy and delivered it to the Dark Lord. Maybe he mentioned it during your class in that way he does…?”

Between them and his parents (and Will’s body-language coaching), they hatched a plan. So, that night…

“…and of course you remember young Mr Potter, Minister.”

“Of course, of course!” the man laughed, shaking the boy’s hand, “Always a pleasure. Good to see you again.”

“I believe Mr Potter could use your advice, Minister. He- well, it’s probably best if he explains.” The Malfoy patriarch turned to Harry. “Go ahead and tell Minister Fudge what you told me.”

“I heard that there was a prophecy about me and-” He lowered his voice briefly. “-and You-Know-Who, from my potions professor. Well, what he _actually_ said was ‘Not even the prophecy about your defeat of the Dark Lord can stop you from being abysmal at potions, Mr Potter,’ but that’s not the point. I was wondering if it was true, and if it was, could – could I hear it? Is there a way? Is it allowed? I-” He looked down at his feet, then back up. “My parents died trying to protect me. I want to know why they had to die, why _He_ was after me in the first place.”

“Would that be possible, Minister?” Lucius asked, “I’m not as familiar with the Department of Mysteries as I would like.”

“No one is, Lucius,” Fudge assured him, “save the Unspeakables themselves, and they certainly aren’t talking. But the Head of the Department’s an old friend – I’ll see if I can wrangle something, especially since the prophecy, if it exists, _must_ have been fulfilled when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named perished.

Harry felt real relief and let it show on his face. “Thank you, Minister! It means a lot.”

Later, the Malfoy patriarch came back around, this time with Narcissa, who had been watching the whole time. “You are an excellent actor, Mr Potter,” she said, “I’m surprised you’re not in Slytherin.”

“The Hat did consider it, but it implied I had too soft a heart to be a ‘true Slytherin.’”

“Unfortunate. But nonetheless, I commend your skill.” And both of them inclined their heads.

* * *

Nothing unusual happened over Christmas break, but Harry expected that, even if no one else did. The troublemaker responsible was in his bag, along with his older version.

But there was another troublemaker still at the school, or rather two of them: whoever had the diary before (because Diary-demort wouldn’t say) and Lockhart.

The man’s teaching had gotten even worse over the break, it seemed, to the point where many students simply stopped going to his class, mostly the Ravenclaws (which, as intelligent as they were, were also _the_ _worst students_ , more interested in self-study in their areas than what the professors where trying to teach unless they overlapped). Harry still went, mostly for the entertainment value, even if he was the one who usually got roped into performing with Lockhart.

Despite Diary-demort’s silence on the petrifaction front, the student body was still ill at ease. If anything, the tension only ratcheted higher, everyone wondering who would be next, what House, what year, what family. Lockhart seemed to think that they needed a morale booster, but was astonishingly tight-lipped about what he had planned.

Which was, apparently, some kind of celebration for Valentine’s Day. The Great Hall was decorated in enormous pink flowers, with red, white, and pink confetti raining down from the ceiling and vanishing about a foot over their heads. Lockhart wore robes that matched the flowers, and introduced his dwarvish “cupids” with enthusiasm, proclaiming that they would be carrying valentines between students for the day.

Harry didn’t know what kind of expression he had on his face, but it made Draco, Neville, and Ron all double over laughing.

It got even worse throughout the day, as many people sent him Valentines. The worst was one particularly persistent dwarf that wound up ripping his schoolbag and sending his belongings spilling across the floor in order to sit on him and sing his valentine delivery. Hermione helped him suck up all the ink that covered his things when some of his inkwells smashed, while Draco, Ron, and Neville helped collect the things that had flown further afield, including Diary-demort.

None of them saw Ginny Weasley spot the diary, her eyes going wide and face going pale.


	11. Unbound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

It was quiet for a time after Valentine’s Day. Even the Voldemorts seemed to be keeping quiet, content at least for the moment. If they had reached any kind of consensus on what to do about themselves, they didn’t share it with Harry.

But then, one day on his way to his next class, he found himself being pushed down one of Hogwarts’ many flights of stairs. Quick reflexes, honed from years of training with Wendigos, saved him from death in his tumble, or at least severe injury, but once again his belongings went flying.

His friends hurried to his side and helped him to the hospital wing, where Madame Pomfrey pronounced him heavily bruised but otherwise unharmed. He spent the afternoon in his underwear, slathered in bruise-healing paste, but the only class he missed was Lockhart’s and so nothing worth worrying about.

What _was_ worth mentioning was that most of his scattered belongings were returned – but not the Riddle diary. His friends couldn’t understand why he was so frantic to find it, and he was reluctantly to explain at this stage of the game – all of them would freak out, but especially the light wizards. Draco might take it in stride – but then again, he might not. He was young yet and not as calm and collected as his father.

Yet nothing came of the diary’s disappearance – not right away – and the diadem sat alone at the bottom of his trunk. Harry looked at it often, turned it over in his hands, but he was reluctant to put it on, to try interacting with the Voldemort inside (older, wiser, but weaker, more unstable). There was no telling how either of them might react.

The Diary-demort seemed to be avoiding him, or whoever had him was. He caught only the barest brushes at random times, and by the time he was able to pursue, the Dark Lord was already long gone.

But nothing came of it – until the day of the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch match. The four boys were waiting in the stands for Hermione to join them when Professor McGonagall came out onto the field and announced that the match was cancelled. Ron and Draco were aghast and practically stampeded the professor while Harry and Neville waited – until they, too, were waived over.

There was a new petrifaction – Penelope Clearwater, a Ravenclaw prefect… and Hermione. She had figured out that there was a basilisk in the Chamber; she and the prefect had been looking around corners with a small compact mirror that McGonagall showed them, to avoid looking directly into the serpent’s eyes.

Harry went back to his dorm without speaking a word. He didn’t need to; their whole group was in shock, and split up after leaving the hospital wing.

He dug through his trunk and pulled out the diadem, eyed it for several long seconds, and then put it on.

“Hello, Harry.”

A semi-translucent specter of an older Voldemort appeared, sitting an his bed. He looked to be in his late twenties to early thirties, skin deathly pale with scale-like patches and eyes the deep red of old blood. “Where is the other me?” he asked, his voice still smooth as silk.

“I don’t know,” Harry answered, “I was hoping _you_ could tell _me_. Someone stole the diary.”

A brief rictus of rage flashed over Voldemort’s face. “ _Stole it?_ ”

“Or took it back. Whoever brought it here. I got pushed down the stairs, and he disappeared. But he’s back to his old tricks again – there’s been another petrifaction. One of my friends.”

Voldemort was silent for a moment. Then, “He didn’t hurt you on purpose. He’s the youngest of us, what’s left of whatever innocence and gentleness we may have had that wasn’t _beaten_ out of us at that _damned_ orphanage. He didn’t intentionally target them.”

“I _know_ ,” said Harry, “but I need to take him back. I need to stop this. I don’t want to hurt either of you, but I can’t let you run wild either. Who had him before? Did he tell you?”

“No,” said the Dark Lord, “and I never asked. You had us both, so it wasn’t important.”

Harry hissed a curse, unknowingly in Parseltongue, which made Voldemort sit up and take note, watching the boy intently. **“I will help you find him,”** the Dark Lord said at last, **“He is the youngest of us, and so also the most foolhardy; I will not let him be caught and destroyed, and harm us all in so doing. But he tempers my madness; I cannot promise I won’t lose my temper and hurt you.”**

 **“That will be enough,”** Harry replied, also in the snake language, **“It’s been a while, but I still know how to take a beating.”**

Voldemort went still again, red eyes flashing. **“Who?”**

**“Pardon?”**

**“Who abused you?!”** he demanded, snarling.

**“My aunt and uncle, and their son, Dudley. They’ve been dead for a long time now and my new family treats me well, but that’s not the kind of thing you forget. When can we start?”**

* * *

There was no direct way to locate or summon the diary, Harry learned; the current Voldemort had spelled both book and diadem against such things from the very beginning, though Tiara-demort taught him several useful detection and summoning spells anyway.

The diadem was far more sensitive to the diary than Harry himself was, and started making noise whenever it was nearby. But it soon became readily apparent that that wasn’t enough; whoever had the diary was doing their _damnedest_ to evade them, when they brought it out at all. It was no Ravenclaw, he knew that much. He’d carefully walking the entire tower one night with the diadem on, both of them searching… to no avail.

That only left _most of the school_.

The diadem grew frustrated quickly, a side effect of whatever madness consumed them, but Harry learned to leave him alone for a day or so to let him cool off.

It was during one of these cooling-off periods that Harry finally learned who had the diary – Ginny Weasley.

 _HER SKELETON WILL LIE IN THE CHAMBER FOREVER_.

Harry sprinted for his dorm and the diadem, practically jamming it on his head the instant he laid hands on it. “He’s down in the Chamber! Where’s the entrance?!”

“First floor girls’ bathroom, where Moaning Myrtle is,” was the immediate reply, “What’s he done?!”

“Taken one of my best friends’ sister into the Chamber!” Harry grabbed his invisibility cloak and shoved it in his pocket, briefly grateful it could fold up oddly small, along with a small med-kit his fathers had pressed on him, holding a mix of muggle and magical remedies and a full box of bandaids. He didn’t know what, if anything, he’d need, but he’d rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it.

He practically flew down the stairs – only to find Ron, Neville, and Draco with Lockhart at wandpoint. “You said you knew where the Chamber was and what’s inside!” Ron was snarling at the man, “You’re going – _we’re_ going – and we’re gonna get my sister back!”

“Dear boy, no one regrets more than I-” Lockhart nearly pleaded, and Harry noticed his wand seemed to be missing, “But when I took the job – nothing in the job description – didn’t expect – “

“-To be exposed for the liar and the fraud you are?” Harry demanded, pulling out his wand and descending to join his friends, “An incompetent wizard, taking credit for other people’s work?”

“Now see here, boy!” the man snapped, “There was _work_ involved! I had to track these people down, ask them exactly how they managed to do what they did! _Then_ I had to put a Memory Charm on them so they wouldn’t remember doing it! If there’s one thing I pride myself on, it’s my Memory Charms. No, I’ve done a lot of work, Harry. It’s not all book signings and publicity photos, you know! You want fame, you have to be prepared for a long, hard slog.”

“Oh, I do. And guess what?” He shot sparks at Lockhart’s feet, making him jump backwards. “Your _real_ one starts now. Let’s go.”

“Where _are_ we going?” Draco asked.

“Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.”

* * *

The ghost was perched atop the central bank of sinks. “Oh, you’re back,” she said, “Did you find the owner of that book?”

“I did,” said Harry, something dawning on him, “but now we’re here for another reason.”

“Oh?”

“Myrtle, how did you die?”

“ _Oooh!_ It was _dreadful_ ,” she giggled, sitting up and shivering in glee, “I was hiding in this very bathroom because Olive Hornby had been teasing me about my glasses, when I heard someone come in and say something in another language. It was a _boy_ , though, so I opened the door to tell him to use his own bathroom, and then – _I died_.”

“How?”

“No idea. I just remember seeing a pair of great yellow eyes, right round this sink.” She hopped down and gestured to the sinks she’d been sitting on.

A spectral image of the Dark Lord appeared. “Say, ‘open,’ in Parseltongue,” he said, “and then tell everyone to get clear.”

Harry did so, and the ring of sinks opened up, revealing a wide pipe that plunged down into the depths of the school.

He exchanged glances with the other boys. Then Draco growled, “Professors first,” and shoved Lockhart in. The man shrieked the whole way down but seemed to land safely, so the rest of them followed, one at a time.

When they were all gathered at the bottom, Ron looking at his wand in concern, the Dark Lord reappeared, smirking. “You could have asked for stairs.”

Harry gave him a poisonous look, but he only snickered. The phantom was perfectly dry, of course, and not at all wet and covered in filth from the pipe like the rest of them.

The boys chivvied Lockhart deeper into the warren of tunnels and pipes they found themselves in, crunching over the ancient bones of long-dead animals and following the phantom that only Harry could see. He led them further under the school, but Harry knew he was keeping them on the right path because they came across an enormous shed skin from Ariadne.

Harry lifted his lit want higher to see; the basilisk was sixty feet if she was an inch, perhaps longer since this was what she’d outgrown. He touched the scales with his free hand. “ _Magnificent._ She’s gotta be _ancient_.”

“Almost a thousand years old,” Voldemort said proudly.

“‘She?’” Neville repeated hesitantly.

“Male basilisks have a crest on their heads,” he said, gesturing to the skin, “This one’s a girl, and _what_ a _girl_.”

But then there was a grunt behind him, a scuffle, and he whipped around to see that Lockhart had tackled Rom and now had his wand in hand. “Farewell, boys,” he grinned, “I’ll be sure to give you an honorable mention in my next book. I think I’ll call it _Sparring with Serpents_. _Obliviate!_ ”

There was an explosion of energy, and Harry was thrown backwards amidst the tremendous crashing of falling stone. When he got up, the diadem was gone, fallen off his head, but he found it quickly and jammed it back on. The Dark Lord reappeared even as he whirled to call out to his friends. “Guys?! Draco? Neville? Ron?”

“We’re here!” Draco called, coughing from the dust, “We’re okay!”

“What happened?!”

“My wand cracked when we landed down here,” Ron called, also coughing, “Must have caused his spell to backfire!”

“Thank heavens for small mercies,” said Harry, “Neville, are you okay?”

“Fine,” the Hufflepuff called, “A little bruised, but I’m okay.”

“Good, I’m glad. What about Lockhart?”

“Unconscious, but still breathing.”

“Fools’ luck,” Harry grunted, “I’m gonna keep going, try to find Ginny!”

“Okay! We’ll try to move some of this rock, open up a way for you to get back.”

“Got it!” Harry looked to the Dark Lord and nodded, and they set off.

It wasn’t too much further to the entrance of the actual Chamber. Harry stopped in front of the doors and looked up at Tiara-demort. “Open,” said the man, so that was what Harry hissed out. The doors swung open, revealing a long, low hall with stone serpents lining the central path. The Chamber was partially flooded, which made Voldemort scowl-

And on the far side of the hall, in front of a statue of what could only be Salazar Slytherin, a small figure lay limp on the ground, a tall figure pacing nearby.

“ _What_ the _fuck!_ ” Harry snarled, and sprinted for them, the phantom ghosting alongside him.

Diary-demort whirled around, eyes going wide at the sight of him. “How did you get in here?!” he demanded.

“I can speak Parseltongue, asshole!” the boy snapped, kneeling next to Ginny to check her pulse. It was weak and thready, but still there. “ _What_ do you _think_ you’re _doing?!_ :

“Getting out of here!” Diary-demort shot back, “Going to find us – _fix this!_ ”

“And you honestly think this isn’t going to make it _worse?!_ ” Harry darted back to his feet and glared at him, fists tightening.

_“How?!”_

“‘How?!’ Your emergence, your rebirth is being tainted by a death! And that of a _pureblood!_ Killing is nothing to you, but what if it does something to you?! Have you done this before?! What if she gets stuck in that body with you?!”

“That won’t happen – that’s not the way this works! She is going in, so I can come out!”

“Okay, fine, let’s say. That’s how it goes,” Harry snapped, the words springing to his mind full-formed from what had previously been half-thoughts – were the diadem’s natural powers helping him? “You say you’re a ‘memory’ of Voldemort – is her energy gonna be enough to sustain you? What if it’s not? What are you gonna do, body-hop until you find your current self? And the world’s a big place. Gonna let the weight of all those deaths twist you up, drag you down?

“And what if – what if by doing this, you _can’t_ merge back? What if by doing this from your end instead of letting him do it on his, you’re making it so that you _can’t_ fix yourselves? You’ll be stuck, two separate, broken versions of yourself with no hope of recovery!

“And what if you don’t make it? You’re sixteen! You’re not at the height of your knowledge and power! – you really think you can face Dumbledore and all the teachers like this? What if you die before reaching your current self? And what if you dying makes the damage permanent, _you impulsive Gryffindor?!_

“What would you do – how would you feel if any of that – _all_ of that came to pass and it was _your fault?!_ ”

The Chamber rang with Harry’s furious tirade, and a series of emotions flashed over Diary-demort’s face, too fast to define.

But suddenly he started to glow white. “What – what is this?” he demanded, frantically looking himself over, “What’s happening?!”

To his and Tiara-demort’s horror, his fingers started to dissolve into silvery mist. Tiara-demort’s power lanced across the space between them, trying to stabilize the diary-spirit, but it only succeeded in causing the dissolution to propagate over to _him_ , too. The phantom vanished, and a silvery mist gushed out of the diadem. When Diary-demort was completely dissolved, the mists whirled together into one – and then streaked upward and vanished through the ceiling, leaving Harry, Ginny, diary, and diadem behind.

Harry stared after them, panting, then whispered, _“_ What the _fuck_.”

Coughing interrupted any analysis he might have tried with the diadem’s powers augmenting his mind; Ginny was waking up and trying to sit up. Harry knelt next to her and said, “Ginny? I’m Harry, Ron’s friend. He’s waiting for us. Can you walk?”

The youngest Weasley was weak, but she could stand. Harry scooped up the diary and tucked it and the diadem into another pocket, then offered the girl a sip of a small Pepperup Potion from his med-kit. That gave her enough energy to walk out of the Chamber under her own power.

Between the three boys, they managed to clear an opening and wake Lockhart, who seemed to have been hit by his own Memory Charm. He had no idea who he was or who they were, which was an improvement, and he followed them quite cheerfully back to the entrance.

Harry looked up the pipe, then at his friends, who looked as unsure as him. “Ah, up? **Up? Reverse? – Oh! Stairs?”**

The pipe rippled and changed into a metal staircase. “Should have thought of that going down,” Harry grunted, and let the way back up to the school.

* * *

Harry had absolutely _no idea_ how he managed to successfully bullshit his way through explaining what happened in the Chamber not only to the Weasleys, but also Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore. Lucius Malfoy was also present, but he, on the other hand, knew Harry well enough to see he was lying.

The story Harry told had some elements of truth, however: that he spoke with Voldemort – _Tom Riddle_ – and got pulled inside the diary, that he learned the location of the Chamber and what was within, that they all journeyed down to the Chamber, that. Lockhart stole Ron’s want and his spell backfired, that the passage collapsed and forced Harry to continue on his own.

He never let on that he knew who Tom Riddle was, but that was where the real bullshitting began. He said that Voldemort called the basilisk out of the statue, that he managed to dodge two strikes from the serpent by watching _around_ it rather than looking directly at it in order to avoid its deadly gaze – “-but somehow, I guess with that second strike, when it hit the ground, it got the diary in its mouth and bit down? Because the next thing I knew, Riddle was screaming like he was dying, and the basilisk had ink just _pouring_ out of its mouth. And then Riddle dissolved into mist and vanished through the ceiling…” There he made the briefest contact with Dumbledore’s eyes, remembering the way the mist had whirled together and rushed away, before breaking to look at McGonagall. “…and the basilisk fell back into the water. If it resurfaced, it wasn’t while we were there, but I closed the doors behind us anyway. And then… we came back, and here we are.”

The Weasleys were beyond grateful, and Dumbledore gave each of the boys two hundred points for their houses and Special Awards for Services to the School. And Draco – Draco asked his father if they could buy Ron’s new wand for him.

“We don’t need your charity, Snake!”

“Consider it a replacement then, Weasel, ‘cause I’m pretty sure I’m the one who landed on it and cracked it! _And_ I don’t know when your birthday is!”

Harry and Neville started giggling. “Ignore them,” said the Ravenclaw to the adults, “They’re always like this. They were arguing about ghost snakes earlier this year, ‘cause I was hearing the basilisk in the walls.”

 _“Harry!”_ both of them yelped simultaneously, which only made him laugh harder.

* * *

The school was formally reopened, having been threatened with permanent closure from the attacks, and Dumbledore canceled the exams, which disappointed both Harry and Hermione when she was restored from petrifaction.

For the last few weeks of school, Ginny was folded into their group. Hermione took to her especially; she still remembered her time during her first year when she had been alone, before she had battle-bonded with them. Neville befriended her, too, and a Ravenclaw girl from from her own year, Luna Lovegood.

And then the year was over, and they were all on the train. With Crabbe and Goyle, there were so many of then that they didn’t fit into one compartment. Yet when Harry asked, the train expanded the compartment to fit all of them and their trunks and animals.

“How’d you do that?” Draco asked.

“I was thinking like going out of the Chamber, it gave me stairs when I asked. Thought it might be the same here.” Harry shrugged.

The compartment expanded even further when Fred and George came by with a deck of cards for Exploding Snap. Both Crabbe and Goyle proved surprisingly good at the game, going toe to toe with everyone else in the compartment and winning. The twins challenged them both repeatedly and lost every time, finally giving up when they pulled into King’s Cross.

Will, Hannibal, and Abigail were waiting at the station, and as last year, they all shared a long embrace before gathering Harry’s things and heading for the car, bidding farewell to his friends after extracting promises to write.

Then they were safely home, Will asked, “So what happened? I can tell they’re gone. What happened to them?”

Harry told them the whole story as completely as he could remember it over a light snack before supper. At the end of it all, they sat in silence until Abby said, “Well damn.”

_“Abigail.”_

“What? We were all thinking it! Memories in books and giant snakes with deadly eyes…”

“Regardless.” Hannibal shook his head. “Harry, we told you to be careful.”

“I know,” said the boy, hanging his head, “I wasn’t careful – I let Ginny take back the diary, then rushed in to save her without thinking too hard, but I wasn’t sure how much time I had.”

“Hannibal,” Will said softly, laying a hand on his husband’s arm, “Ignoring the fact that she’s no longer young and naïve enough to trust so blindly, if Abby was taken, or…”

He didn’t speak her name, but they all knew who he meant. Hannibal sighed. “Very well. But no hunts this summer.”

That made Harry scowl. When he acted as bait to mark out prey for the Wendigos, at his age he attracted a very specific kind of prey, one he _absolutely_ wanted to eliminate. “Ugh, fine.”


	12. Head Full of Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Katz is alive because I say she is.

The summer started auspiciously. Harry finished his Hogwarts homework in record time and charged headfirst into his Muggle schoolwork. Abigail successfully lured, brought down, and processed three kills one hundred percent on her own. The dogs were all healthy. Hannibal’s garden overflowed with fruits and vegetables, and they all feasted.

And then one day there was a knock on the door.

Both Hannibal and Harry looked up from what they were doing. They exchanged glances, and Harry rose to answer the knock. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father palm a long knife from the block on the counter and another from a drawer, one balanced for throwing.

Harry opened the door, and his first thought was, ‘He knows.’ The tall, heavyset black man at the front of the group knew – or at least suspected the provenance of their protein, though the others had no idea. But they all were surprised to see him; none of them had known he was living here.

“Ah,” said Hannibal behind him, “Agent Crawford. Agent Katz. Agent Price, Agent Zeller. Doctor Bloom.”

“How long have we all known each other, Hannibal?” the spunky Asian woman demanded, planting her hands on her hips.

“My apologies, Beverly; I didn’t want to presume, given the circumstances. This is Harry, our adopted son. Harry, these are Jack Crawford, Beverly Katz, James Price, Brian Zeller, and Alana Bloom.”

Harry’s chest tightened, but he didn’t let on anything but pleasant surprise. “Oh! It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot of stories.”

“Only good ones, I hope,” Katz grinned, and shook his hand when he offered.

“Please, come in,” said the eldest Wendigo, stepping back and surreptitiously returning the knives to their places, “I take it you’re here to see Will?”

“I wouldn’t have come if I thought we could do it without him,” Agent Crawford said a little stiffly.

“Harry, would you mind?”

He nodded and headed toward the back of the house.

Will and Abigail were both in swimsuits despite the faint chill in the air, washing the dogs in the backyard and laughing as they sprayed each other with the hose. Harry knew their good mood was about to disappear. “Dad!”

“Coming!” Will abandoned the hose and sprinted for the house before Abby could grab it and turn it on him. He dried off quickly with a towel from the deck and followed Harry back inside.

The wizard knew the instant he spotted and recognized their visitors, almost a decade older than their last pictures, because his bloody presence deepened and darkened with pain and fear.

“Hey, Will! Lookin’ good!”

“Thanks, Bev.” He stepped forward and let her hug him, but shied back a little when Alana offered the same. “Hannibal, do you mind if we use the parlor?”

“Go right ahead. I’ll be along with some refreshments in a moment.” When they all disappeared into the sitting room, Hannibal whispered, “Go tell your sister that the FBI is here and she can’t be seen.”

Harry nodded and darted off again.

Abigail panicked briefly but dried off and climbed the outer wall to her bedroom window, getting dressed and then climbing back down and disappearing into the woods, dogs in tow. They wouldn’t go far, though the dogs would need another bath.

Harry returned to doing his homework, trying to listen in, but the doors to the sitting room were closed and no one was talking loud enough for him to make out.

Almost three house passed before anyone emerged for longer than it took to use the bathroom. Everyone looked grim and Will looked pained. The High Wendigos bade farewell to the FBI agents, even as Harry texted Abigail that they were leaving.

They were gone completely by the time she made it back, and Hannibal had Will in his arms, the younger Wendigo’s face buried in his throat. “Dad…?” Abby said hesitantly.

“They need me to go back to the States with them. There’s a killer they want caught – ‘Buffalo Bill.’” Will’s voice was muffled but still audible.

Both Abby’s and Harry’s breath caught. Although they did not quite have his gift for it, both had been taught how to Read people as best they could. But they were lucky; they could Read and then forget. Will was not; his _curse_ was that every time he Read, he took a piece of that person into himself, and depending on how deep he went, it could take anywhere from hours to years to erase the imprint he received. It had been almost a decade, but he was still picking bits of the Chesapeake Ripper out of himself.

“Are you gonna go?”

“Yes,” Will sighed unhappily, “They’re desperate. A Senator’s daughter’s been taken. If we catch him, Hannibal gets amnesty in the even enough evidence ‘turns up’ to convict him as the Ripper.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened. “I was _very_ careful. I doubt they’ll find anything.”

“They’re still solving cold cases thirty years down the line, Hanni,” Will murmured into his throat, “That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

“I’ve been a Wendigo since I was at school in Italy – our DNA might be different enough to be an attack by a ‘cryptid.’”

“Still, not a risk I’m willing to take. I’m going, and I want you to come with me.” He leaned back to look the elder High Wendigo in the eye. “I _need_ you to come with me, keep me steady – otherwise I don’t know how much of me will come back.”

Hannibal’s eyes flashed, and he pulled Will back into his arms.

* * *

They had told the BAU team that they would need time to consider. In reality, both Wendigos knew that they would be watched closely while in the States, too closely to hunt – or bring any meat with them, no matter how cleverly concealed. Instead, they hunted quickly – yet still carefully – and nearly gorged themselves on the flesh of murderers, rapists, and pedophiles they snared through various means. Hannibal also set the bills up for autopay, certain groceries for auto-deliver (including food for the dogs), and explicitly forbade Abby and Harry from eating nothing but junk food while they were gone.

But then came the hard part. There was no guarantee that they would return in time to see their children off for their next years of school. Abigail could take Harry to King’s Cross, of course, and head off to school herself, but the dogs would have to be boarded, the house shut up.

Both Hannibal and Will disliked the thought of that.

“Then find Buffalo Bill quickly,” said Abigail.

* * *

The two “kids” kept up with every development they could in the case. Since a Senator’s daughter had been taken, it became a huge deal overnight, and the return of one of the FBI’s own out of retirement similarly made headlines. Freddie Lounds was posting articles almost as fast as she could type them, speculating on where Will and Hannibal had been and what they’d been up to, since each gave a different answer every time someone asked. Some of Will’s answers made Abby and Harry crack up, like “ultralight hiking around the world” (no way in hell would Hannibal abandon civilization like that), “running a farm in Mongolia” (same), and “taking over for a Colombian drug lord” (more likely than the others, but still not very high). Hannibal’s best had the two of them as Tibetan monks with Will serving as “dog whisperer” for their monastery.

Despite Freddie’s _intense_ prying, both Will and Hannibal managed to stay mostly out of the public eye, leaving Jack to bear the brunt of her attention. Though his temper was still formidable, he’d grown proof to her questioning over the years, and stonewalled her at every turn.

The elder Wendigos called whenever they could to check up on their children and discussed some details of the case with them, what details that they could get away with sharing or had already been leaked by the media. Sometimes having an outside perspective helped; they weren’t blinded by what they had seen.

Jame Gumb was caught and killed by the Wendigos three days before the Hogwarts Express was due to depart. Though officially the FBI discovered his identity first, Will and Hannibal chanced on him living at the home of a former employer, rather than his listed address, and took him down, saving the Senator’s daughter in the process.

Both of them wanted to return to England right away, but there were reports to be written, statements to give, and reporters to avoid. And both of them were _starving_ ; their tempers were short, and while Hannibal hid his irritation behind an titanium wall of civility, Will was prone to snapping at everyone for the slightest inconvenience (though he made it a point to apologize to his friends at the BAU if he did snarl at them, saying that he wanted to return home to his son and his dogs).

On August 31st, Abby and Harry hunted for their parents, catching two pedophiles on the outskirts of London and hauling them home for processing, which they were both exceedingly careful about, wearing Hannibal’s “murder onesies” despite their low opinion of the attire.

The morning of September 1st, both Will and Hannibal called to wish Harry a safe trip and a good school year, then Abigail took him to the train station. They had gotten all his books the day the letter arrived (though Abby hadn’t been able to sign his Hogsmeade permission slip), as well as new robes and supplies for classes new and old. Harry was able to get all three of his electives – Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Divination – and was actually able to practice them over the summer. He was especially interested in Divination, and read tea leaves for both himself and Abigail. According to said leaves, Abigail would have an easy year with her now-boyfriend, the werewolf David Kessler, but Harry’s was going to be _hard_ – symbols for darkness and depression kept turning up, but also ones for “long-awaited news” and a metaphorical light at the end of the tunnel.

But then he was waving goodbye to Abby and laughing with his friends. Yet their gossip revolved around something that had happened during the summer – a prisoner had escaped from the wizarding prison of Azkaban.

Sirius Black – Harry’s godfather.

One of his other godparents was on the train with him – Remus Lupin, still tired but happy to see him. They had written the occasional letter to each other, keeping the other appraised of what was happening in their world along with occasional requests for advice, information, or clarification from the Ravenclaw, but this was the first time they’d seen each other since the will reading. The werewolf sat with them in their compartment, and when they found out he was their defense professor for the year, everyone pelted him with a multitude of questions about the lessons he had planned, which made him laugh.

But then the train began to slow, even though Harry knew there was no way they’d arrived at Hogsmeade Station. All the other students were just as confused, sticking their heads out of their compartment doors, questioning everyone else – which turned to screams and cries of shock when all the lights went out, the train grinding to a complete stop.

Harry focused and flicked his wand, creating a few werelights that hovered in their compartment, illuminating his friends’ frightened faces. “Professor, do you know what’s going on?”

Lupin looked grim. “The train is being searched for Sirius Black. Once it’s done, we’ll continue on our way to Hogsmeade, and Hogwarts.”

“‘Searched?’” Harry repeated, “By who?”

“By _what_.”

Cold rippled through the compartment, making the werelights waver even as frost started spiderwebbing over the windows. Then a shadowy figure appeared on the other side of the door, sending bolts of cold dread down Harry’s spine.

The compartment door slid open, revealing the dementor. It was tall and slender and cloaked from head to toe in black, save for the dead, decaying hand it had used to pull open the door. The hand withdrew, and the dementor took a long, sucking breath.

Any warmth left in the air vanished, and Harry’s hands tightened into a death grip on his wand and the arm of his chair. Darkness swam at the edges of his vision, distant screams in his ears, but by the light of his wavering werelights, he saw his godfather stand and speak to the dementor, then banish it from the compartment with a spell of glowing silver mist.


End file.
